Springless Autumn, Frost of Winter
by Haiza Tyri
Summary: Éowyn and Faramir's sides of the story, in more complete detail. Holds to the book, with much actual text from the book, but expands upon it and incorporates a few details from the movies.
1. Lady of Rohan, Captain of Gondor

**Lady of Rohan, Captain of Gondor**

**Chapter 1**

Théodred was dead. The people of Rohan, tall, fair, stern of purpose, had grown used to awaiting their dead from each sortie, each battle with roving orcs on their borders, but no one had expected that Théodred, the son of the king, Second Marshal of the Mark, a fell warrior, would fall. Who now would lead them? They had watched their king grow prematurely old, infirm of purpose, confining himself to his hall, he who had once ridden tall and strong. They had looked to the wisdom and strength of Théodred. Now they would look to his kinsmen, the son and daughter of the warrior Éomund and Théoden's sister Théodwyn. They turned their eyes to Éomer and Éowyn.

Théodred was dead. Her cousin, her swordplay tutor, her childhood hero. Éowyn had seen her cousin ride away to the west to counter a marauding band of orcs on the Westfold and had longed to go as well. Her hand longed for the hilt of a sword, her muscles for the ache of battle. She was of the Rohirrim! But she had stayed home in Edoras, and Théodred had died. And she was alone in the Golden Hall with the shell of the man who had once been Théoden King. Éomer was gone, against orders, on another quest for orcs. The people would look to _her._ She had to prepare her cousin for burial. She had to inform her uncle.

The tears she shed fell in the dark and quiet and solitude of her own chamber, and when she emerged, there was no trace of them on her face except for the slight reddening of her eyelids. As she walked through the corridors of Meduseld, none saw the struggle of her soul in her cool glance save one, and him she feared alone among men, for he _could_ see what was hidden from others. She did not acknowledge the presence of Gríma Wormtongue beside her uncle nor seem to see his pale wise face and the sharp glance from his eyes, but inwardly she trembled. She knelt before her uncle and looked up into his face, taking his hand.

"My lord," she whispered, "your son is dead."

Once this same king had been tall, straight, and strong, the white of his hair and beard speaking of strength and wisdom rather than age, his eyes as blue as the sunlit sky. Now he was stooped with age beyond his years, bowed with sorrow and black anxiety, and his eyes had faded to a pale, watery blue from which but rarely came the old, keen light. That fire seemed kindled for a moment, and almost she thought he would rise from his chair, the carven throne on which he had once sat with kingly dignity, but at her words Gríma had risen, his long, pale fingers lightly touching Théoden's sleeve.

"Ill news, my lord," his smooth voice said quietly. That voice crawled up Éowyn's backbone with chill fingers and seemed to seep into her mind. "Ill news but not unexpected, I fear. Long had your nephew incited your son to needless battles, and who may say what was his motive? So is your line ended, my lord." There seemed to be compassion in his voice, but beneath it there was something else entirely.

The light died in Théoden's eyes, and the news, instead of spurring him on to action as Éowyn had hoped, seemed only to add to the burden that pressed him down into his chair. Full of fury, Éowyn turned her eyes to Gríma, wishing for a sword to leap to her hand, but his eyes caught hers and held them. Black his eyes were, pits of darkness that only mirrored the blackness that rushed in to fill her soul, the blackness of despair. She rose, turned, left the Golden Hall to stand on its high platform, let the wind lift her pale hair, wordlessly beg the Sun to warm the chill inside her, but not even the strong winds could sweep away her despair nor the heat of the Sun bring life to her living death.

* * *

The second son of the Steward of Gondor sat beside the Great River under the young pale Moon and faint stars, watching the rippling reflections in the grey dark, his mind lost in thought while his ears were sharply alert for the sound of orcs. Broken Osgiliath was at his back and the River before him, and beyond the Anduin could be seen the mountains of Mordor. His thoughts were with his brother and the sound of his horn heard in Minas Tirith three days before. Faramir had not seen Boromir in nearly seven months, and those months had laid on him the weight of his brother's duties and reputation, but three days ago the wind had borne an echo of Boromir's ancient horn, the deep, echoing, throbbing blast that resonated in the hearts of the Men of Gondor. He had felt a swift presentiment of danger to his brother, but no news had come.

The quest should have been his, but he did not begrudge it to his brother. Did not begrudge it but wished it had been his to unravel the mystery of his dreams. Just before Osgiliath fell, he had had the dream, and many times since. He had seen the eastern sky grow dark and a growing thunder, but in the west a pale light had lingered, and out of it came a voice, remote but clear, crying:

_Seek for the Sword that was broken:_

_In Imladris it dwells;_

_There shall be counsels taken_

_Stronger than Morgul-spells._

_There shall be shown a token_

_That Doom is near at hand,_

_For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

_And the Halfling forth shall stand._

Night after night he had had this dream, and once it had come to Boromir, and in the singleness of purpose that sometimes would come over the brothers, they set it before the wise Steward, their father, and discovered many things. And Faramir had been filled with purpose and the knowledge that he must seek out Imladris and discover the mystery of the riddle. It still haunted him at night, like tonight as he gazed at the Moon's reflection. But Boromir had firmly set him aside in the masterly way he had and gone in his place. And Faramir did not begrudge him the glory and hardship of the journey, but still the dream and sense of purpose haunted him, and he wondered how he would be able to forgive himself if his brother died on a doomed quest that should have been his.

As if in answer, he saw something moving on the stream afar. He sprang to his feet, hands already fitting arrow to string, but in a moment he saw that this boat had nothing orcish about it, and there was none to row or steer it. A pale light seemed to be on it, and something like awe came upon him. He strode out into the water, something drawing him to the strange, delicate boat glimmering grey like a dream. Still in awe and fear, he did not dare to touch it though it passed within an arm's length of him, and it seemed almost filled with clear water, from which came the light, and lapped in the water a warrior lay asleep.

It was a moment before Faramir knew he was seeing his brother Boromir. He had been pierced with many wounds. His familiar sword, broken, was on his knees; his round shield, battle-scarred, was at his head; at his feet were many foul orcish weapons. Pillowed under his head was a cloth of shimmering hue, and around his waist was a fair belt that seemed to be made of golden leaves. On his face was a peace that Faramir had never seen there, but missing was his ancient horn.

"Boromir!" he cried out. "Where is thy horn? Whither goest thou? _O Boromir!"_ But his brother was gone, borne by the boat glimmering into the night, and Faramir could never be sure thereafter whether it had been reality or a vision. But his men found him fallen on his knees in the Great River, weeping for his brother who was dead and had passed down the River to the Sea.


	2. To Hope's End and to Heart's Breaking

**To Hope's End and to Heart's Breaking**

**Chapter 2**

Éomer had returned to Edoras with one hundred and five of his éored. Fifteen Riders had fallen to the orcs, and when she saw that they were gone, Éowyn was a little ashamed of the great relief she felt when she saw her brother alive and well still. She never showed her deep feeling as she stood on the stone platform before the Golden Hall to welcome the Riders, but her heart swelled as always when she saw them riding up the winding path. They came in a long line of mail-clad men, swift, shining, fell and fair to look upon. Their horses were of great stature, strong and clean-limbed, their grey coats glistened, their long tails flowed in the wind, their manes were braided on their proud necks. The Men that rode them matched them well: tall and long-limbed; their hair, flaxen-pale, flowed under their light helms, and streamed in long braids behind them; their faces were stern and keen. In their hands were tall spears of ash, painted shields were slung at their backs, long swords were at their belts, their burnished shirts of mail hung down upon their knees. Éowyn had known most of them from childhood, and Éomer had always seemed to her the fairest and strongest and best of them. He was taller than any other Rider with his father's height, and from his helm as a crest a white horse tail flowed. His eyes were clear and bright in their greyness, and Éowyn knew that even through the sadness of their lives, his heart had never succumbed to the chill that gripped hers. Early death of beloved parents had swept them both with sorrow, but Éomer had thrown himself into his new life in Meduseld, gradually drawing her into it as well. For a few years they had enjoyed themselves. But it had been many years now since Éowyn had felt the freedom of her childhood. It had been many years since Gríma Wormtongue had begun gaining power over Théoden—and somehow over her. Éomer had returned home, but he would go out again. And she would remain at Edoras.

All the men looked up at the tall figure of the woman in flowing white, pale hair blown by the wind that flowed through the lives of all the Rohirrim. Éowyn was much admired and beloved by her people, and often she was called by the name of her mother, Théodwyn—"Delight of the People." Pure Rohirrim womanhood she was, slender and tall in her white robe girt with silver, but strong and stern as steel, a daughter of kings. Very fair was her face, her long hair was like a river of gold nearly to her knees, and her eyes were the grey of an overcast day on the Plains. Each Rider touched his spear to his helm as she looked on him, and Éomer kissed his sword and held it out to her.

The éored presented itself to the king and reported its dead, and the king nodded and waved them away feebly while Gríma whispered in his ear. Fear struck Éowyn's heart. She knew that Gríma had long been whispering slanders about her brother into her uncle's mind. Many things Gríma said she saw the truth in, yet they still coiled serpents of horror around her heart, but nothing he could say against Éomer could sway her. But the light in her uncle's eyes was unfriendly as he watched his nephew stride from the hall in his youth and strength and beauty.

She went to Éomer as he cared for Firefoot, the fiery grey horse that had long been his close companion. In a land whose culture was founded on horses, the people were Riders, and a horse was as dear as a child. Éowyn's one sense of freedom in those harsh days was to ride out onto the Plains until all sense of time and place was gone, until all that existed was a Rider, a horse, the wind, the grass, and the mountains. Now she walked through the stables greeting each horse as a friend, passing a sorrowing hand over the nose of Gúthwind, Théodred's horse, and came to stand near her brother as his swift, sure strokes brought a gloss to Firefoot's grey coat.

"Éomer, where are Arod and Hasufel? Did they fall along with their Riders and the rest of the horses?"

He did not answer for a long moment. "We met . . . travelers on the Plains. A stranger three I have never seen, for they were an Elf, a Dwarf, and a Man, and when I exchanged words with the Dwarf about the Elf Witch of the Golden Wood, he was defended by the Elf, and the Man stopped both with a gentle wisdom. They had come from Tol Brandir on foot in fewer than four days in pursuit of orcs and small creatures they called Hobbits."

"Four days!"

"Four days. The Man was a thing out of legend, and Wingfoot shall he be known among the Rohirrim. But you will see them all, for they will return Arod and Hasufel before many days are passed."

"You gave them Arod and Hasufel!"

"I did. And I say to you, Éowyn, my sister, that with this Man I one day hope to draw sword against orcs and against Mordor, and great will be the battle on that day!"

Éowyn stared at her brother. He seemed to have grown taller yet, and a light shone from his clear grey eyes as he remembered the meeting. Would that she had ridden with the Rohirrim, a true shieldmaiden of Rohan! "Éomer," she said abruptly, "beware Gríma Wormtongue. He whispers constantly to our uncle against you and fills my heart with foreboding."

Éomer listened soberly. Too long had he seen his land attacked, his people threatened, while the king did nothing and said all was well. He had grown tired and impatient with inaction, so he had led his éored against the king's orders to the battle he knew had been necessary to the Mark's security. _Would that Théodred had not been slain!_ He smiled and tried to laugh. "Take no care for me, sister. I have not fallen so far from my uncle's graces that _Gríma_ can overthrow me. For-" The smile fell from his face, his eyes turning sad. "For I am now his heir," he said in almost a whisper.

_You have not lived in this hall month after month and seen the slow devastation of the king!_ Éowyn wanted to cry. _You have ridden away to battle and cannot feel the slow chill that creeps over this place! Would that I were a man and could ride away—away—and not slowly suffocate here!_ But the words caught in her throat, and as she walked quietly away, Éomer thought how fair and strong she was.

A deep affection Éomer had for his sister, yet his eyes, keen in many other things, were often blind to what she kept hidden behind her set countenance. He had seen her grow silent, cold, and stern, yet to him, a Man of Rohan, this seemed as natural as the fact that she had grown tall, strong, and beautiful, for were not the women of Rohan as grim and fell as the men? He had never felt he must worry about his sister, for he knew she neither needed nor wanted anyone to protect her. Yet later in the Golden Hall, as he sat at meat by his uncle, his disobedience for the moment unresolved, he saw Éowyn's hand tremble just a little as she served the king, and he quickly followed her line of sight to where Gríma sat on the other side of the king. He had seen before now how Gríma looked on Éowyn with liking and had felt disquiet, but when he saw his sister's reaction, he looked at the counselor more closely and longed to strike him. What was it in Gríma's eyes? Desire? Need? A kind of obsession was there as he laid his pale fingers on Éowyn's wrist and asked a quiet question. She jerked away, revulsion and—could it be fear?—on her face as she poured him wine and moved quickly away. Gríma watched her as she went, and then his eyes flicked to Éomer. The blackness in them kindled, and he slowly smiled and turned away to whisper to the king.

A fury such as he had never known filled Éomer, and he clutched the edge of the table to keep his hands from Gríma's throat. To attack the king's counselor in the king's presence in the king's hall was punishable with death, but perhaps he could put the fear of the Rohirrim into the foul little snake. He rose early from the table and went out, standing in shadows near the door to watch those exiting. Gríma came out last with the king and then turned, seeming to remember something he had forgotten. Éomer followed him soundlessly back into the empty hall, quietly loosing Gúthwinë in its sheath. Without warning he grabbed Gríma around the throat, lifted him and thrust him against a pillar, pressing hard enough to cut off his air and bringing his sword up just under his chin, nicking the soft skin and drawing a little blood. The man's eyes bulged, and he clawed impotently at Éomer's arm.

"Too long have you watched my sister with foul intent in your eyes," Éomer hissed. "If I see again or hear report of you even looking upon her, I will cut out your eyes and feed them to the carrion-fowl, and if you dare to touch her again, I will slit your throat and give your body to the orcs!"

Gríma knew he would do it. The man was too great a threat to his mastery here at Edoras, but he had prepared for something like this. His eyes flicked toward the door.

Too late, Éomer heard the footsteps. The king entered, hunched over his stick, Éowyn assisting him. Éomer saw that a smile touched his sister's face when she saw him and his victim, but the king barked hoarsely, "Éomer!"

Éomer slowly released Gríma, giving his throat one last vicious squeeze and allowing him to drop heavily to the floor. Gríma scuttled over to where the king was slowly lowering himself into his throne. "My good lord," he rasped, "you see that what I have told you is true. Your line has failed, and there is no trust in the children of your sister. Your son is gone, and now your nephew would murder the only man you can trust. What can be done with such an one?"

"Uncle!" cried Éowyn, but the king stopped her with a motion.

"Gríma sees truly," his once strong voice quavered out. "Háma!"

The door guard came into the hall and knelt before the king. "My lord."

"Bind that man, remove his sword and helm, and imprison him."

Háma looked up in astonishment. "My lord?"

"Uncle, Éomer is your truest subject!" Éowyn cried.

"Do you still obey your king, Háma?" Théoden asked, and a little of the accustomed fire shone in his eyes.

"I-I do, my lord." He rose and went to Éomer. "Please, my Lord Éomer, will you come?"

Éowyn flew to his side, caught his arm, and for a moment Éomer saw the passionate Éowyn he had known as a child. "Háma!"

"Please, Lady," Háma said quietly with sorrowing eyes, "I obey my king."

"As do I," said Éomer, and with his eyes on his uncle he unstrapped Gúthwinë and handed it to Háma. "Keep it well, good Háma, for it will be needed." He removed his helm and gave it, too, to the door guard, then held out his wrists for binding. Before Háma could lead him away, he knelt, bowed his head to the king, and said, "My lord king, you have my allegiance and my life."

"Excellent words, bravely spoken by a man in bonds," Gríma sneered. "But are they borne out in action?"

Éomer glanced back at his sister, and she raised her chin, allowing him to see her proud and strong as he was. But as he disappeared from her sight, hot tears flooded her cheeks. The king had closed his eyes and settled his head back as if exhausted. Gríma came and stood by her, an odd look on his face. He cupped a cold hand around her cheek and said softly, "You see, Lady? There are none left to stand by you. You are alone." And, oddly, there was compassion in his voice and understanding in his face, and for just a moment, Éowyn wondered if he really was the only one who truly understood her. But then she looked into his eyes, and the tears dried, and the coldness settled around her and inside her. She stepped away from his hand.

"Your words are poison," she whispered and walked away from him. _I know they are poison, but I have already drunk them, and I am dying._

* * *

Faramir rode alone from Osgiliath to Minas Tirith, from the city on the Anduin to the City against Mindolluin. He rode slowly, pondering what he had seen or thought he had seen, remembering the great peace on Boromir's face, the odd belt, the many orcish weapons beneath his feet, the absence of his horn. What people had he encountered, what company had he been in to lay him out in such state? What had happened on his journey? Where was his horn? How came he to find such peace? And how was Faramir to tell his father that his most beloved son was dead? Would his vision even be believed?

He had no doubt that whatever he had seen was true. His grief was too real, his heart too heavy and too near to breaking. His brother was dead. His big, brash, courageous, _alive_ brother was dead. Memories flashed through his mind, obscuring his view of the White Tower. Boromir the day he left, both exhilarated and grim, looking forward to his dangerous journey but knowing he left behind a city that might come under siege at any time. Boromir fighting orcs at his side in Osgiliath, calling out encouragement to him and imprecations on the orcs. Boromir staring out into the East from the White Tower of which he was Warden at the red glows and foul airs of Mordor, almost obsessed with the idea of somehow defeating the Dark Lord of that Dark Land. Boromir singing forth the glories of Gondor. Boromir quarreling violently with him over the values of war and learning. Boromir as a young boy defending him to their father. Boromir storming out of history lessons to hack a sword training post to bits in fury. Faramir smiled at that memory. Boromir had never liked lessons and used to taunt him for enjoying them so.

Finally his memories brought him again to the day Boromir left Minas Tirith as he himself entered that city and slowly rode along the circling streets. Faramir had, of course, told his father he would journey to Rivendell to seek out the answer to his dreams, and Boromir had laughed and thrust him aside with the declaration that the dream coming to him at last meant that _he_ should go. Boromir lived for glory and danger. He was a masterful man, and one to take what he desired. For days Boromir and Denethor had argued, for Denethor could not bear the thought of the son he loved heading into such danger. He both gloried in his older son's strength and prowess and dreaded where it would take him. For once he and Faramir were to an extent on the same side of an argument. But Boromir had gradually won him over, as always, until he began to feel that it was indeed the best way. On the day of the last argument, Denethor and Boromir, having almost come to a consensus, were discussing where Boromir's departure would leave the defense of Osgiliath, which had been attacked by the Dark Lord a fortnight before. Faramir remembered Denethor saying jovially:  
"They say you vanquished the enemy almost single-handedly that day!"

Boromir grinned and did not refute his prowess, but he did assert, "The victory belonged to Faramir as well."

Denethor cast a dark glance at his second son. "But for Faramir the city would still be standing. Were you not entrusted to protect it?"

"Our numbers were too few, Father," Faramir said quietly. They had had this conversation before, and he knew there was little use in arguing.

"You let the enemy walk in. But for Boromir coming to your rescue, they would have taken the city on a whim." The Steward glared at him, lowering his voice. "Always you cast a poor reflection on me."

Faramir felt the injustice of the accusation. Had he never done rightly? Had Boromir never failed? He kept his face calm, though he knew it was pale. He had long ago come to the realization that he would never please his father. Long ago he had ceased working for his father's approval. He worked only to keep the pain from becoming paramount. "That is not my intent."

Boromir rose with a violent motion and knocked over his chair. While Faramir rarely said anything when his father acted like this, Boromir and Denethor frequently had violent quarrels. They were very much alike and loved each other all the better for it. But Boromir always defended his younger brother to their father, even when Faramir did not want to be defended, when he knew it would only make matters worse. Boromir strode to the end of the room, and Denethor followed. They lowered their voices, but Faramir could still hear them echoing along the stone walls.

"Faramir loves you, Father!" Boromir protested. He loved his brother as he had loved his mother, unstintingly. His one pain was the way Denethor treated him.

"Do not trouble me with Faramir. I know his uses, and they are few. Boromir, about this journey to Rivendell . . ."

Faramir approached, making his offer one last time for the quest that was his by right. "Let me go to Rivendell, Father."

But that was probably the deciding factor in Denethor's final decision. "You? Oh, I see. A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality." He laughed bitterly. "I think not. No, the quest must be made, and it must be made by the one who will not fail. You will go, Boromir."

Exultation crossed Boromir's face. "Thank you, Father! I am sure something will come of this that will prove to be of help to us."

"You will do me proud, my son." It was a command, and as Denethor left the room, Boromir stood staring at Faramir with the sudden weight of heavy responsibility.

And now Faramir must bring news to Denethor of Boromir's failure. People cheered him as he rode, but he heard none of it. They stopped to look admiringly up at him, but he saw none of them. He did not know that he was as well loved as Boromir had been idolized. Boromir had been like a figure of history, but Faramir was one of _them_, a man of wisdom and virtue, a scholar and a warrior. As raven-haired as his brother, though not so broad and muscular, he was tall and quick, and his face was sad and proud. With his men he was stern and commanding; with his people he was gentle and wise. Behind his keen and bright grey eyes lay a sharp wit and a searching mind. He had begun to go his own way long ago, taking time in study, speaking to his people about what concerned them, learning from the virtuous and wise. All except Denethor could see his worth.

Faramir strode past the dead White Tree with his customary bowed head in reverence to the kings of old and the king who might one day come again, pushed open the doors of the great hall beneath the glowing tower, and entered the cool echoing shadows of the house of stone. He came to the metal door of the throne room and paused, gathering his wits and his courage. Then he entered, passing between the great pillars and images of the kings of old. Each of them he could name and describe, but today his mind was on what he must say to his father. And then he saw that he had no need of words, for Denethor sat in his chair, and on his lap was a great horn tipped with silver, and as he looked, Denethor loosed his hold on it and it fell in two pieces to the stone floor, and in his father's eyes was a terrible grief, too bitter for tears.


	3. Out of Dark, Out of Doubt

**Out of Dark, Out of Doubt**

**Chapter 3**

The call came up the hill of Edoras. Riders were approaching the city—strange riders to many eyes but familiar horses. Hearing the call, Éowyn went out to the platform to look over the Plains with her keen Rohirrim eyes. Somewhere someone was playing a tune that seemed to her to symbolize the glory and sadness of her people—of her. Sorrowing it was, yet strong and stern, like the wind from the mountains. And as it grew stronger, she saw the riders approaching the hill. The Sun shone brightly, suddenly bringing a little cheer to her desolateness, but a storm approached over the mountains, and it seemed the riders would reach shelter just in time. She recognized Arod and Hasufel immediately and could even see that Arod bore two riders, but who was the fourth figure? The horse it rode was clearly Shadowfax. But Éomer had told her the dark news that Gandalf was dead, and he was the only rider the noble Mearas would take. She had liked Gandalf a good deal when they had met years ago, had liked both the kindliness and sternness of his eyes, the way he would sometimes seem almost bumbling when she knew he was the wisest person she had ever met. But over time, as Gríma had gained more authority, Théoden had seemed to like Gandalf the Grey less and less, and then had come the day when the king had bidden the Wizard to take a horse and leave, and Gandalf had made him furious by taking the most noble horse in all Rohan. This could not be Gandalf. Turning, Éowyn went back into the beautiful hall whose walls seemed to be ever closing in on her.

Gríma was quietly laughing at the news of the riders. "They will have to seek shelter elsewhere. No stranger will enter the gates today."

Éowyn saw to her astonishment that behind his laughter was fear. "Why do you not wish these riders in my uncle's presence, Gríma Wormtongue?" she asked softly.

"They bring only more trouble to an already troubled old man," he returned sharply.

_All the trouble has been of your making,_ she thought, but she did not say it. Instead she turned to her uncle. "Will you not accept a new face into this hall as once you used to, my lord?"

He turned his eyes to hers as she stood beside his chair, and they betrayed the same hopelessness she felt. He did not answer, though, for the doors opened, and a guard entered.

"My lord king, Gandalf has returned and brought with him Shadowfax."

_Gandalf! Éomer must have been mistaken._

"He is accompanied by three others," the guard continued. "One, a Man, he calls Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Kings, and the others are Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf."

Théoden stirred. "Gandalf," he murmured. "A strange company."

"Aye, my lord, and in strange garb, and each has the look of weariness about him but also of some grim errand. They are at your gates and would have speech with you, if you will permit them to come into your hall."

Gríma was about to speak, but the king held up his hand. "I will permit it, if only to learn why they cross my lands."

"But they must leave all weapons at the door," Gríma said eagerly. "Tell Háma that not even a staff must enter the hall."

"Go," Théoden agreed.

The guard bowed and left. Then they waited, king, counselor, and shieldmaiden, a long few minutes until the doors opened again, swinging slowly inwards grumbling on their great hinges. The hall was long, and the four figures that entered were almost hidden in shadow and half-light. They walked slowly down the length of the hall, gazing about them at its lofty roof, mighty pillars, and embroidered tapestries. The tallest figure lifted an arm and pointed to the cloth every Rohirrim loved best: a young man upon a white horse. He was blowing a great horn, and his yellow hair was flying in the wind. The horse's head was lifted, and its nostrils were wide and red as it neighed, smelling battle afar. Foaming water, green and white, rushed and curled about its knees.

"Behold," rang a clear voice, "Eorl the Young! Thus he rode out of the North to the Battle of the field of Celebrant." And to Éowyn the voice seemed golden and green like growing things and deep and dark like a mountain spring. It burst into her darkness like the light of dawn.

The figures came closer until they were clearly visible. Gandalf truly was there, clad in his familiar grey traveling cloak yet seeming to quiver with some kind of inner light. A Dwarf stood next to him, short yet powerful, his hands ill at ease without an axe, glowering out from under heavy brows. Beside him stood easily an Elf with all the beauty and strength of his people, and though his brow was unlined, his eyes held more care for the problems of Middle-earth than was his people's wont, and mirth as well. The two representatives of opposing kindreds seemed to have no animosity at all for one another; in fact, the Elf's hand rested lightly on the Dwarf's shoulder as on the shoulder of a friend. But Éowyn's eyes were for the tallest stranger, the Man who had spoken of Eorl. Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Kings, he had been called. His clothes were much stained with travel, but he wore them as though they were the finest robes, and an odd cloak was clasped about his neck with a fair brooch, as on the Elf and Dwarf. His hair was dark and his eyes deep grey, and there was little about his appearance to draw much attention, but he bore himself as straight and light as an Elf, as proud and strong as a king, and about him was a mystical air as of majesty partly hidden. His dark eyes were like his voice: shining and clear as deep water.

Gandalf broke the long silence. "Hail, Théoden son of Thengel! I have returned. For behold! the storm comes, and now all friends should gather together, lest each be singly destroyed." And his voice was subtly different than before, containing a note like fire in its depths.

Théoden slowly pulled himself to his feet, bending painfully over his staff. "I greet you," his cracked old voice rasped, "and maybe you look for welcome. But truth to tell your welcome is doubtful here, Master Gandalf. You have ever been a herald of woe. Troubles follow you like crows, and ever oftener the worse. I will not deceive you: when Éomer brought the tiding that you had gone at last to your long home, I did not mourn."

Éowyn did not move, but she wanted to cry out in protest. _She_ had mourned, as much as her heart, weighed with sorrow upon sorrow, could for yet another sorrow. Gandalf had always been a true and honest friend, and only Gríma could have persuaded Théoden otherwise.

"But news from afar is seldom sooth," Théoden continued. "Here you come again! And with you come evils worse than before, as might be expected. Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow? Tell me that." And he sat again, slowly.

"You speak justly, lord," Gríma said in sorrowful tones, and again he wove his web of dark thoughts and doubt and hopelessness to ensnare a king—and a king's niece. "Why indeed should we welcome you, Master Stormcrow? Láthspell I name you, Illnews; and ill news is an ill guest, they say." He laughed as he raised his eyes to stare boldly at each of the king's noble guests.

"You are held wise, my friend Wormtongue, and are doubtless a great support to your master," Gandalf replied, and somehow Éowyn knew that he was aware of precisely what kind of support Gríma was. "Yet in two ways may a man come with evil tidings. He may be a worker of evil; or he may be such as leaves well alone, and comes only to bring aid in time of need."

"That is so," said Wormtongue, "but there is a third kind: pickers of bones, meddlers in other men's sorrows—" he glanced at Théoden "—carrion-fowl that grow fat on war. What aid have you ever brought, Stormcrow? And what aid do you bring now?" He looked again at the three others with a kind of sneer that made Éowyn's self-composure hard to keep. "Do you bring men? Do you bring horses, swords, spears? That I would call aid; that is our present need. But who are these that follow at your tail? Three ragged wanderers in grey, and you yourself the most beggar-like of the four!"

"The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden son of Thengel," said Gandalf. "Has not the messenger from your gate reported the names of my companions? Seldom has any lord of Rohan received three such guests. Weapons they have laid at your doors that are worth many a mortal man, even the mightiest. Grey is their raiment, for the Elves clad them, and thus they have passed through the shadow of great perils to your hall." His voice had risen just a little, and he spoke sternly, powerfully.

The force of his voice compelled Éowyn to raise her eyes again to his face. Somehow she knew he was fighting for Théoden, seeking to draw him out of the darkness he had been in for so long, and she felt as if his success or failure would make as great an impact on her as on her uncle. Her eyes moved from him to his companions, rested on the Man, Aragorn. He was watching Théoden with veiled eyes, and it was clear that he was not just a Man who happened to be in Gandalf's company. He was a Man on whom would rest the fate of many. Gríma and Gandalf's next words blew by in a blur that she hardly heard, but the change in Gandalf's attitude and voice drew her attention.

Soft he was no longer. Casting his tattered cloak aside, he revealed a pure white robe that shone with more than sunlight. He stood up and leaned no longer on his staff; and he spoke in a clear cold voice like sharp wind.

"The wise speak only of what they know, Gríma son of Gálmód. A witless worm have you become. Therefore be silent, and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a serving-man till the lightening falls."

He raised his staff. Éowyn almost flinched as there was a roll of thunder. The sunlight was blotted out from the eastern windows; the whole hall became suddenly as dark as night. The fire faded to sullen embers. Only Gandalf could be seen, standing white and tall before the blackened hearth, as if self-illumined. A moment later Wormtongue was sprawled on his face.

"Now Théoden son of Thengel, will you harken to me? Do you ask for help?"

The darkness was dissipating; sunshine shone in a far-off patch of sky. Éowyn felt almost warm for the first time in many long days, and three things brought about a subtle change in her. One was Gríma on his face before the king; another was the softening of Gandalf's voice; the third was the gleam in Aragorn's eyes.

"Not all is dark," came Gandalf's voice gently. "Take courage, Lord of the Mark; for better help you will not find. I bid you come out before your doors and look abroad. Too long have you sat in shadows and trusted to twisted tales and crooked promptings."

The light grew. Éowyn could nearly see Aragorn's face again, his eyes fixed on the king who was slowly standing, looking about him with a slowly returning alertness. Quietly she went and took her uncle's arm, and he looked at her in nearly the old way, giving her hand a squeeze. They came slowly down from the dais and went toward the doors, the light ever growing. Gandalf gave them a great blow.

"Open! The Lord of the Mark comes forth!"

The Lord of the Mark had not been out of his hall in many months. The doors opened and a keen air came whistling in. The king lifted his head and felt it as he had been used to feeling it, as a very breath of life, blowing away the old cobwebs and darkness. A few tendrils of life curled in Éowyn's heart.

"Send your guards down to the stair's foot," said Gandalf. He turned deep eyes to Éowyn. "And you, lady, leave him a while with me. I will care for him."

Éowyn stared at him. His eyes were kind, but a deep disappointment filled her. She was a woman, and as always she must leave while the men did the things of importance. War was a man's realm, and apparently so was healing. Gríma was in the hall, and there she must return. Her face did not change, and her expression remained cool and distant, but her uncle grasped her hand.

"Go, Éowyn sister-daughter. The time for fear is past." His voice was strong, and as he looked on her face, his eyes had become nearly their old clear, strong blue.

She turned and went slowly into the house. As she passed the doors she turned and looked back, taking in the whole scene. Far away were the high White Mountains, rising into peaks of jet, tipped with glimmering snows. Nearer were the beloved grasslands, rippling under the wind and curtains of rain. Before her at the doors were her uncle the king, bent over his black staff, Gandalf the White, straight and powerful, a serious Dwarf with almost a twinkle in his eyes, and an Elf of shining beauty and gentle eyes, and a Man. And she was suddenly aware of the Man's eyes on her: tall heir of kings, wise with many winters, greycloaked, hiding a power that yet she felt. For a moment still as stone she stood, then turning swiftly she went back into the darkness.

* * *

Ithilien. Always it had been Faramir's heart's home, a land of peace even when he fought in it. Once the garden of Gondor, it kept still a dishevelled dryad loveliness about its climbing woods, swift-falling streams, gentle slopes, and wide glades. Many great trees grew there, and small resinous trees and a wealth of sweet-smelling herbs. Primeroles and anemones were awake in the filbert-brakes; and asphodel and many lily-flowers nodded their half-opened heads in the grass: deep green grass beside the pools, where falling streams halted in cool hollows on their journey down to Anduin. Faramir and his men had come here yesterday, and immediately he had felt the turmoil of his heart quiet and a clarity of mind come.

His heart was still heavy for his brother and sorrowing for his father, but he was able to think clearly about more important things. For he was not so overwhelmed by pain as to not be aware that there was indeed more at stake than the personal lives of a father and two sons. He was Captain of Gondor, and not only was all Gondor threatened by the shadow from Mordor but all his world. He remembered well his history lessons, many given by a wise and good friend, Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim, and he knew Sauron would not be content with taking Gondor. He would destroy Rohan; he would conquer the fair lands of the Elves and the mountains of the Dwarves; he would subjugate far distant lands of which Gondor had no knowledge. If he were allowed, his orcs would completely destroy all that was good and beautiful in the world. But Faramir was Captain of Gondor, and while he did not treasure swords and glory in battle as Boromir had, he cared deeply for the land and people he could defend with sword and battle. He was not a man of war, but he was a man who would go to war to win peace.

Long ago he had ceased to work for his father's approval and had sought always to do and be what would aid Gondor. He studied the kings of old and learned not only their ancient strategies but also their weaknesses, and strove to eliminate them in himself, and their virtues, and strove to take them into himself. He knew he was a Son of Númenor in blood, and he strove to be a Son of Númenor in word, deed, and thought.

So Faramir, Captain of Gondor, journeyed through Ithilien with his men, tall Rangers of Gondor, and they met the dark Haradrim in battle and defended their land and their fair white City.


	4. Honor and Quality

**Honour and Quality**

**Chapter 4**

She had gone back into the great hall, but at the far end Gríma had risen slightly and was looking at her with malevolent dark eyes. She retreated again and stood in the shadows just inside the door, looking out.

Théoden was standing on the platform, looking out from under the overhang of the roof at the rain gleaming like silver and the sunshine stabbing down through it. "It is not so dark here," he said. The sharp wind was blowing on him, bringing strength to voice and soul.

"No," said Gandalf, and strong life was in his voice. "Nor does age lie so heavily on your shoulders as some would have you think. Cast aside your prop!"

And Éowyn saw, her eyes almost flooding with tears, that Théoden's black staff fell clattering on the stones, and he drew himself up, slowly after being bent for so long by spells and deceit. Now tall and straight he stood, again the figure of the man he had been.

"Dark have been my dreams of late," he said and glanced back toward the hall. Éowyn involuntarily shrank back into the deepest shadows, but he turned back to look across his lands. "But I feel as one new-awakened. I would now that you had come before, Gandalf. For I fear that already you have come too late, only to see the last days of my house. What is to be done?" His voice was sorrowful but hopeless no longer, and it was a sorrow of strength.

"Much," said Gandalf. "But first send for Éomer. Do I not guess rightly that you hold him prisoner, by the counsel of Gríma, of him that all save you name the Wormtongue?"

_Éomer! O my brother!_

"It is true," said Théoden grimly. "He had rebelled against my commands, and threatened death to Gríma in my hall."

"A man may love you and yet not love Wormtongue or his counsels," said Gandalf.

_I have longed to say this, but I could not find the words._

"That may be. I will do as you ask." Théoden looked at Gandalf and smiled, and as he did so many lines of care were smoothed away and did not return.

Háma was dispatched to bring forth the prisoner, and Théoden sat on a stone seat, Gandalf before him. Aragorn and his companions stood nearby, and for a moment Éowyn feared he could see her with those keen grey eyes. But Gandalf drew their attention as he spoke of the hard times ahead, the peril that rushed ever nearer with the swift arrow of time. And with each word Théoden seemed to grow stronger and younger, though his beard remained long and white, and the lines of care and anxiety in his face became lines of experience, wisdom, and laughter. But weariness still seemed to have some hold on him as he looked up at his great house.

"Alas," he said, "that these evil days should be mine, and should come in my old age instead of that peace which I have earned. Alas for Boromir the brave! The young perish and the old linger, withering."

Éowyn's eyes slid shut as she struggled against tears. She must not weep, not even for Théodred, of whom she knew her uncle was thinking. She would be expected to be strong and firm for these strangers, and strong and firm she was. But a tear fell as she saw Théoden looking down helplessly at his hands.

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better if they grasped a sword-hilt," said Gandalf.

Théoden rose and looked automatically to his side for his sword, but it was not there.

"Take this, dear lord!" said a clear voice, Éomer's beloved voice. "It was ever at your service." Éowyn clutched her icy hands together when she saw her brother come softly up the stair. No helm was on his head, no mail was on his breast, but in his hand he held a drawn sword; and as he knelt he offered the hilt to his master.

"How comes this?" said Théoden sternly. Éomer looked in wonder at him, standing now proud and erect. Where was the old man whom he had left crouching in his chair or leaning on his stick?

"It is my doing, lord," said Háma. "Since he was free again, and he a marshal of the Mark, I brought him his sword as he bade me."

"To lay at your feet, my lord," said Éomer and bowed his head as he knelt there before him.

"Will you not take the sword?" said Gandalf.

How long had it been since Théoden had wielded a sword? Slowly he stretched forth his hand. As his fingers took the hilt, it seemed to Éowyn and Éomer that firmness and strength returned to his thin arm. Suddenly he lifted the blade and swung it shimmering and whistling in the air. Then he gave a great cry. His voice rang clear as he chanted in the tongue of Rohan a call to arms.

_Arise now, arise, Riders of Théoden!_

_Dire deeds awake, dark it is eastward._

_Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded!_

_Forth Eorlingas!_

The call galvanized all who heard it. Chills ran down Éowyn's spine. She longed to seize sword and horse and ride forth. She did not move. Éomer sprang to his feet and spread his arms wide.

"_Westu Théoden hál!"_ he cried. "It is a joy to see you return unto your own. Never again shall it be said, Gandalf, that you come only with grief!"

"Take back your sword, Éomer, sister-son," said the king, and joy was in his voice. "Go, Háma, and seek my own sword! Gríma has it in his keeping. Bring him to me also." He turned and looked Gandalf full in the face, a king. "Now, Gandalf, you said that you had counsel to give, if I would hear it. What is your counsel?"

Éowyn shrank into the deepest shadows as Háma entered the hall. She knew the travelers would soon be requiring food and she should go make preparations, but she did not want to move.

"You have yourself already taken it," answered Gandalf. "To put your trust in Éomer, rather than in a man of crooked mind. To cast aside regret and fear. To do the deed at hand. Every man that can ride should be sent west at once, as Éomer counseled you: we must first destroy the threat of Saruman, while we have time. If we fail, we fall. If we succeed—then we will face the next task."

_Oh, let me ride! Let me fight! Let me do such deeds! Why must a woman's form bar me from all I would do?_

"Meanwhile," Gandalf continued, "your people that are left, the women and children and the old, should fly to the refuges you have in the mountains."

_Fly. Fly to refuge. Always we must fly to refuge, we who have as great a courage and will._

"This counsel seems good to me now," said Théoden. "Let all my folk get ready." He offered his guests hospitality, but Aragorn forestalled him.

"Nay, lord. There is no rest yet for the weary. The men of Rohan must ride forth today, and we will ride with them, axe, sword, and bow. We did not bring them to rest against your wall, Lord of the Mark. And I promised Éomer that my sword and his should be drawn together."

_Would that my sword also could be drawn alongside his!_

"I myself will go to war," Théoden proclaimed, "to fall in the front of the battle, if it must be. Thus shall I sleep better."

"Then even the defeat of Rohan will be glorious in song," said Aragorn.

Éowyn heard movement. Two men were hauling Gríma to his feet as Háma stood over him with Herugrim, the king's sword. She turned and slipped quietly down the corridor to her woman's work, and Aragorn's words rang in her ears. _Then even the defeat of Rohan will be glorious in song._ But it was not so much the words she heard as the voice of the heir of Kings.

When at length the men came into the hall, the king's sword was strapped to his side, and Gríma was not with them.

_Can he be gone? Where would he go?_ Éowyn wondered as she served the king and listened to the talk between him and Gandalf. They spoke of Saruman, of whom she remembered Gandalf and Théoden speaking with honour, the greatest Wizard in Middle-earth and a friend of Rohan. Gradually she understood with horror that he had fallen to Sauron and Gríma with him.

"How far back his treachery goes, who can guess?" said Gandalf. "He was not always evil. Once I do not doubt that he was the friend of Rohan, and even when his heart grew colder, he found you useful still. But for long now he plotted your ruin, wearing the mask of friendship, until he was ready. In those years Wormtongue's task was easy, and all that you did was swiftly known in Isengard. And ever Wormtongue's whispering was in your ears, poisoning your thought, chilling your heart, weakening your limbs, while others watched and could do nothing, for your will was in his keeping."

Éomer and Éowyn glanced at each other, both understanding the infuriating feeling of being unable to do anything. _And still you do not understand how he chilled my heart as well, how his overthrow and departure have still not fully healed me as my uncle has been healed._

Aragorn, too, glanced up at the lady Éowyn, and she, pale and cold, returned his gaze steadily.

"But when I escaped and warned you," Gandalf continued as if he had not seen the looks, "then the mask was torn, for those who would see. After that Wormtongue played dangerously, always seeking to delay you, to prevent your full strength from being gathered. He was crafty, dulling men's wariness or working on their fears, as served the occasion. He persuaded you to forbid Éomer to pursue the raiding Orcs. If Éomer had not defied Wormtongue's voice speaking with your mouth, those Orcs would have reached Isengard by now bearing a great prize, two members of my Company, sharers of a secret hope. Dare you think of what they might now be suffering, or what Saruman might have learned to our destruction?"

"I owe much to Éomer," said Théoden, looking on his nephew soberly. "Faithful heart may have froward tongue."

"Say also that to crooked eyes truth may wear a wry face."

_Why could I not have said these things? Why was my heart chilled and my tongue silent in my uncle and brother's service?_ Éowyn demanded of herself.

"Indeed my eyes were almost blind. Most of all I owe to you, my guest. Once again you have come in time." And the king bowed his head to his guest.

Then they spoke of gifts and danger and war, and Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were given mighty gifts of mail, helms, and shields in the colours of Rohan, green and white, red and gold. Then the king rose, and Éowyn bore to him an ancient golden cup set with emeralds.

_"Ferthu Théoden hál!"_ she said. "Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee at thy going and coming!"

His eyes smiled on her as he took the cup and drank the spiced wine, and she lowered her eyes a little, unwilling to let him see her continued disquiet. She carried the cup next to Gandalf and bowed her head before him, both in reverence and to hide her eyes. Next to him were Legolas and Gimli, and they both smiled at her as they drank, the Elf's serene beauty contrasting with the Dwarf's gruff good cheer. Then as she stood before Aragorn, she paused suddenly and looked upon him, and her eyes were shining. Even Gandalf, even the Elf did not strike her with such intensity as this heir of Kings, and she knew he must be the heir of Elendil, a man of legend and prophecy. Would he be King? And he looked down upon her fair face and smiled; but as he took the cup, his hand met hers, and she trembled at the touch. "Hail Aragorn son of Arathorn!" she said.

"Hail Lady of Rohan!" he answered, but his face now was troubled and he did not smile, and she did not know why.

But Éomer looked on his sister, and his heart filled with her beauty and his uncle's restoration, and his eyes shone.

Théoden and all with him went out to the platform, and there the guards and heralds and all the lords and chiefs that remained in Edoras or dwelt nearby gathered before him. Éowyn stood near her uncle and knew that she was pale, but she raised her chin and looked on him resolutely.

"Behold! I go forth, and it seems like to be my last riding," said Théoden. "I have no child. Théodred my son is slain. I name Éomer my sister-son to be my heir. If neither of us return, then choose a new lord as you will. But to someone I must now entrust my people that I leave behind, to rule them in my place. Which of you will stay?"

No man spoke. All would ride with their king, and Éowyn felt as one with them. What glory to ride to war in the company of Théoden King and one such as Aragorn son of Arathorn! What continued dreariness to remain at home!

"Is there none whom you would name?" cried Théoden. "In whom do my people trust?"

"In the House of Eorl," answered Háma.

"But Éomer I cannot spare, nor would he stay," said the king, "and he is the last of that House."

"I said not Éomer," answered Háma quietly. "And he is not the last. There is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, his sister. She is fearless and high-hearted. All love her. Let her be as lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone."

All eyes turned to Éowyn, and she heard, keening in her mind, the strain of music she had heard earlier. It was like the wind, she thought, a symbol of her people, both sorrowing and strong. _Fearless?_ she whispered, though her lips did not move. _Perhaps once. Perhaps once I would have realized this honour. My people love me. They trust me. I, a woman, will lead them. But I wish only to ride to battle. I fear not arrow nor sword nor pain nor death. But I am not fearless._

"It shall be so," said Théoden. "Let the heralds announce to the folk that the Lady Éowyn will lead them!"

Then the king sat up in a seat before his doors, and Éowyn knelt before him, just where Éomer had knelt giving up his sword, and received from him a sword and a fair corslet. _You think you do me great honour in laying this grave duty on me, but you condemn me to prison._

"Farewell sister-daughter," he said. "Dark is the hour, yet maybe we shall return to the Golden Hall. But in Dunharrow the people may long defend themselves, and if the battle go ill, thither will come all who escape."

"Speak not so!" she answered. "A year shall I endure for every day that passes until your return." But, almost without her knowing it, as she spoke her eyes went to Aragorn who stood nearby.

He looked back gravely at her. "The king shall come again," he said softly. "Fear not! Not the West but East does our doom await us."

The king now went down the stair with Gandalf beside him. The others followed. Alone Éowyn stood before the doors of the house at the stair's head; the sword was set upright before her, and her hands were laid upon the hilt. She was clad now in mail and shone like silver in the sun. She watched the company walk down to the gate, great in manly strength and resplendent in armour, and at the gate a great host of men, old and young, awaited them, all ready in their saddle. More than a thousand were there mustered. Their spears were like a springing wood. Loudly and joyously they shouted as Théoden came forth.

She saw Éomer exchange some merry words with Gimli the Dwarf and seat him behind himself on Firefoot. She saw Shadowfax run from the ford to Gandalf like an arrow and saw that Éomer spoke and knew he was repeating what he often had said about that great horse: "Were the breath of the West Wind to make a body visible, even so would it appear."

She saw Gandalf throw back his grey cloak, and cast aside his hat, and leap to horseback. He wore no helm nor mail. His snowy hair flew free in the wind, his white robes shone dazzling in the sun.

Aragorn's cry was borne to her on the wind: "Behold the White Rider!"

"Our King and the White Rider!" the company shouted. "Forth Eorlingas!"

The trumpets sounded. The horses reared and neighed. Spear clashed on shield. Then the king raised his hand and with a rush like a sudden onset of a great wind the last host of Rohan rode thundering into the West.

Far over the plain Éowyn saw the glitter of their spears, as she stood still, alone before the doors of the silent house, chilled in the warm sun.

* * *

The Rangers of Gondor had been in Ithilien six days, and many times before, and never had they seen creatures like these. A few had seen a thin spiral of blue-grey smoke in the early morning light, and Faramir and three of his men had crept near. They could move nearly as silently as Elves, and their clothes, green and brown of varied hues, were designed to allow them to walk unseen in the glades of Ithilien. Green gauntlets covered their hands, and their faces were hooded and masked with green to prevent the sun's gleam on fair skin.

"Here! Here is where the smoke came from," one of the men called to Faramir. "'Twill be nigh at hand. In the fern no doubt. We shall have it like a coney in a trap. Then we shall know what kind of thing it is."

"Aye, and what it knows!" one of the others agreed.

They had fought three times in these last six days, and several times in periods of rest and watchfulness, sharp eyes had caught a small figure in the dusk, a slippery thing with pale eyes, but it always eluded them. Earlier that very day before the dawn they had seen it in a pool, just a glimmer of luminous eyes as it dived away from them. They would catch it this time.

Faramir and his men strode through the bed of deep brown fern from different directions, working to herd the creature into their midst. To their astonishment, what popped from the fern was not one creature but two, and neither was pale and slippery. Faramir took them for children for just a moment, for both came barely above his waist, but their faces were not the faces of children. They were plain, simple faces, with lines of laughter around the mouth but fear, desperation, and grim determination in the eyes. Both had thick, curly hair, the elder's of a dark brown and the younger's of a golden brown, and their feet were large, for their size, and immensely hairy. The fairer one was younger than the other, but the clothing hung loosely on both, and it was clothing that seemed as if once it had been comfortable and homey but was now worn and dirty with great toil. But both also wore cloaks of a strange cloth that seemed somehow familiar to Faramir, clasped with wondrously lovely green and silver brooches, and both held long, fair knives that seemed to serve them for swords, protecting each other's backs.

"We have not found what we sought," said one of the Men, taken aback. "But what have we found?"

"Not Orcs," said another, appearing almost amused.

"Elves?" said the third doubtfully.

"Nay! Not Elves," Faramir answered, eyeing them. "Elves do not walk in Ithilien in these days." He felt a sudden sadness as he said it. "And Elves are wondrous fair to look upon, or so 'tis said."

"Meaning we're not, I take you," said the larger of the two, and he said it so stoutly and defiantly, for so small a thing, and in so common a tongue that two of the Men grinned. "Thank you kindly. And when you've finished discussing us, perhaps you'll say who you are, and why you can't let two tired travellers rest."

Faramir laughed, and though it was a grim sound, it was the first he had laughed in a long time. His heart suddenly warmed to the two creatures, but he was all the more cautious, determined to doubt what seemed fair, for it might prove foul. "I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor. But there are no travellers in this land: only the servants of the Dark Tower, or of the White."

"But we are neither," said the other. "And travellers we are, whatever Captain Faramir may say." He spoke with the same accent as his companion, but there was a difference to his speech, and Faramir was inexplicably reminded of those he knew who were counted Elf-friends.

How valiant these small people were! There they stood, two minute beings still holding their long, fair knives, glaring up at the four tall Men at whose mercy they were completely.

"Then make haste to declare yourselves and your errand. We have a work to do, and this is no time or place for riddling or parleying. Come! Where is the third of your company?"

"The third?"

"Yes, the skulking fellow that we saw with his nose in the pool down yonder. He had an ill-favoured look. Some spying breed of Orc, or a creature of theirs. But he gave us the slip by some fox-trick."

The expressions on their faces were very different. The larger one bore a look of disgust, the smaller something like pity and dislike combined.

"I do not know where he is," he said. "He is only a chance companion met upon our road, and I am not answerable for him. If you come on him, spare him. Bring him or send him to us. He is only a wretched gangrel creature, but I have him under my care for a while. But as for us, we are Hobbits of the Shire, far to the North and West, beyond many rivers. Frodo son of Drogo is my name, and with me is Samwise son of Hamfast, a worthy hobbit in my service. We have come by long ways—out of Rivendell, or Imladris as some call it."

Faramir started and stared intently at him. Could this Hobbit, of a people and land he had never heard of, tell him aught of his brother?

"Seven companions we had," Frodo was saying. "One we lost at Moria, the others we left at Parth Galen above Rauros: two of my kin; a Dwarf there was also, and an Elf, and two Men. They were Aragorn; and Boromir, who said that he came out of Minas Tirith, a city in the South.

"Boromir!" all four men exclaimed.

"Boromir son of the Lord Denethor? You came with him?" said Faramir. _My brother, I never thought to hear news of you here._ He quelled the rising pain. "That is news indeed, if it be true. Know, little strangers, that Boromir son of Denethor was High Warden of the White Tower, and our Captain-General. Sorely do we miss him. Who are you then, and what had you to do with him? Be swift, for the Sun is climbing!"

Frodo gave him a long look. "Are the riddling words known to you that Boromir brought to Rivendell?"

_Seek for the Sword that was Broken._

_ In Imladris it dwells._

Faramir heard the all-too familiar words with astonishment. "The words are known indeed. It is some token of your truth that you also know them."

"Aragorn whom I named is the bearer of the Sword that was Broken. And we are the Halflings that the rhyme spoke of."

_'And the Halfling forth shall stand.' Can it be that the mystery's answer should come to me rather than I go to it? It pursues me still, this riddle. And this Hobbit has seen the Sword that was Broken, the heir of Elendil. Shall the King then come in my lifetime—if I live? 'For Isildur's Bane shall waken.'_

"That I see," he said thoughtfully. "Or I see that it might be so. And what is Isildur's Bane?" _The thing that overthrew Isildur shall waken. And what could this little Hobbit know of it?_

Frodo's eyes, which seemed as if normally they should be cheerful and honest, were shuttered, and Samwise shifted his stance, gripped his sword tighter. "That is hidden," said Frodo. "Doubtless it will be made clear in time."

Faramir made his decision. He could not kill these two, though it was his father's order to destroy all strangers in Ithilien. "We must learn more of this and know what brings you so far east under the shadow of yonder—" he gestured toward the mountains in the east in whose shadows he had always lived. "But not now. We have business in hand. There will be hard handstrokes nigh at hand ere the day is full. If I return, I will speak more with you." He gestured forward Mablung and Damrod and gave orders that the Hobbits should be well guarded. As he turned to go, Frodo bowed low to him.

"Farewell! Think what you will, I am a friend of all enemies of the One Enemy. We would go with you, if we halfling folk could hope to serve you, such doughty men and strong as you seem, and if my errand permitted it. May the light shine on your swords!"

Faramir stared at him, wondering much at his errand. He almost smiled. "The Halflings are courteous folk, whatever else they be. Farewell!"

The Rangers of Ithilien had one main task on this foray into these lands: to ambush the troops of Haradrim who went on the ancient roads through Ithilien to swell the hosts of the Dark Tower. They went marching heedlessly up roads made by the craft of Gondor, thinking the power of their new master great enough that the mere shadow of his hills would protect them. Faramir and his men came to teach them another lesson. Great strength of them had been reported, marching north, and the Rangers followed Faramir confidently, sure that while he was Captain no Man of Harad would be allowed to pass. He led now in all perilous ventures, and they believed his life was charmed, or that fate spared him for some other end.

In the stillness, the Rangers stole up the slopes, singly and in long lines, keeping always to the shade of grove or thicket, or crawling, hardly visible to any eyes in their brown and green raiment, though grass and brake. The Sun rose, the air became warm. All waited now in readiness along one of the old roads. Then they came, the great groups of the Men of Harad, dark men with black hair plaited with gold, bronze corslets, scarlet robes. The Rangers let them pass many lengths down the road until most of the large regiment was within sight, and then Faramir drew his sword silently. Arms pulling bowstrings gave the last bit of tension; swords were drawn. Faramir gave the call clearly and loudly: "_Gondor! Gondor!"_

Before they had time to be surprised, many of the Southrons died in the first volley of arrows. The rest gave fight, but the air was thick with arrows, and green-clad figures were leaping down upon them with bright blades. They fought; they fled; they died. Faramir hated fighting Men. Orcs were simple. They were born into evil, bred in evil, lived with evil as their sole purpose. Men had eyes that hurt when they died, strange tongues that perhaps whispered the name of a sister or a mother or a wife with their last breath. Did they all bear evil in their hearts, or did they march blindly behind leaders to a war of which they knew nothing? But they went to serve the Enemy, and they were a threat to Faramir's people. Perhaps it was a mercy to kill them before they ever came in sight of the Dark Land and its Dark Lord. His brows drawn in a grim line, he called _Gondor! Gondor!_ and wielded his long blade, and the Haradrim fled before him.

Then from the distance came new sounds. Great crying and shouting. A shrill bellowing or trumpeting. A great thudding and bumping, like huge rams dinning on the ground. The one terror the Southrons had.

"Mûmak! Mûmak! Ware!" Faramir cried, and other Rangers took it up.

"Ware! Ware! Mûmak!"

The monstrous beast was enraged, his huge, sharp tusks flailing, his massive legs crushing everything in his way. The fighting and flying arrows had driven him mad, and he rampaged through the trees, throwing off his masters. Men of Gondor and Harad alike fled, but many he overtook and crushed to the ground. Soon he was gone, though they could still hear the carnage that surrounded him.

Now the Rangers hunted the Haradrim singly through the trees, and this was to their advantage. Soon all were dead or fled. As the day wound down to late afternoon, parties of Rangers searched the woods, collected their dead and wounded to be taken home in honour. They must move swiftly, for they would be pursued as soon as news of their deed reached the enemy, but Faramir knew his business with the Hobbits must be complete. He had to discover from them all the meaning of the mystery.

He gathered those several hundred of his men who had survived for a rest, and he brought Frodo before him and questioned him long about his errand, his route, his companions. He could see clearly that Frodo was concealing from him some matter of great importance, though how a little being like this could be so involved in great matters was as much a mystery as anything else. Again and again he persisted with the end of the riddle.

"It was at the coming of the Halfling that Isildur's Bane should waken. If you are the Halfling that was named, doubtless you brought this thing, whatever it may be, to the Council of which you speak, and there Boromir saw it. Do you deny it?"

Frodo lowered his eyes and made no answer.

"So! I wish then to learn from you more of it; for what concerns Boromir concerns me." _Oh, how is it that he came upon this journey with you and died?_ "Had you this thing in keeping? It is hidden, you say; but is not that because you choose to hide it?"

"No, not because I choose." The Halfling looked up at him earnestly. "It does not belong to me. It does not belong to any mortal, great or small; though if any could claim it, it would be Aragorn son of Arathorn, whom I named, the leader of our Company from Moria to Rauros."

_Again this Aragorn! It is a strange Company that Boromir would be part of and not lead._ "Why so, and not Boromir, prince of the City that the sons of Elendil founded?"

"Because," Frodo answered quietly, "Aragorn is descended in direct lineage, father to father, from Isildur, Elendil's son himself. And the sword that he bears was Elendil's sword."

Faramir kept his face still while his men cried aloud at this and his own heart cried, _May the King indeed come?_ "May be," he said. "But so great a claim will need to be established, and clear proofs be required, should this Aragorn ever come to Minas Tirith. He had not come, nor any of your Company, when I set out six days ago."

"Boromir was satisfied of that claim. Indeed, if Boromir were here, he would answer all your questions. My part in the Company was known to him, as to all the others, for it was appointed to me by Elrond of Imladris himself before the whole Council. On that errand I came into this country, but it is not mine to reveal to anyone outside the Company." He squared his small shoulders and looked Faramir proudly in the eye. "Yet those who claim to oppose the Enemy would do well not to hinder it."

Was the Halfling threatening him? He almost wanted to laugh again. "So! You bid me mind my own affairs and get me back home, and let you be. Boromir will tell all, when he comes. When he comes, say you!" _But Boromir will never come. Never again will he look out from the White Tower._ "Were you a friend of Boromir?"

A strange look crossed Frodo's face: memory, fear, regret, reticence. He hesitated. "Boromir was a valiant member of our Company," he said quietly. "Yes, I was his friend, for my part."

_'For my part'? O Boromir, what befell you, my brother?_ "Then you would grieve to learn that Boromir is dead?"

"I would grieve indeed." For just a second he caught the dark sorrow in Faramir's eyes, and he faltered, "Dead? Do you mean that he _is_ dead, and that you knew it? Are you now trying to snare me with a falsehood?"

Faramir raised an eyebrow. "I would not snare even an orc with a falsehood." _For if evil is used to destroy evil, what is the difference between the old evil and the new?_

"How then did he die, and how do you know of it?"

"As to the manner of his death, I had hoped that his friend and companion would tell me how it was."

"But he was alive and strong when we parted. Surely there are many perils in this world."

"Many indeed. And treachery not the least." He said this only to judge Frodo's reaction, but it was the unexpected reaction of his companion, Samwise, that surprised and pleased him. He had seen the small figure creeping closer but had chosen to ignore it. Now the little Hobbit pushed through the circle of Men and strode up to Frodo's side.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo," he said, eyes flashing, "but this has gone on long enough. He's no right to talk to you so. After all you've gone through, as much for his good and all those great Men as for anyone else." He planted himself squarely in front of Faramir, his hands on his hips, and a look on his face as if he were about to address a naughty child instead of a very tall Man who was eye-to-eye with him when sitting down. "See here, Captain! See here!" And he proceeded to give Faramir a very thorough dressing down, at the bottom of which Faramir could clearly see a devotion to his master and a great but simple dislike for the Enemy.

"Patience," he finally said. "I am commanded to slay all whom I find in this land without the leave of the Lord of Gondor. But I do not slay man or beast needlessly, and not even gladly when it is needed. Neither do I talk in vain. So," he said gently, "be comforted." Then he let his voice get a little sterner. "Sit by your master, and be silent!"

The hobbit sat, heavily and a little defiantly. Faramir turned to Frodo again. "You asked how do I know that the son of Denethor is dead. Tidings of death have many wings." He closed his eyes against the pain and saw again the body of his brother passing before him. "Boromir was my brother," he whispered. When he opened his eyes again, he saw a wary and searching yet pitying expression in Frodo's eyes. Then he told Frodo what he had seen that night in the Great River and watched him closely all the while and saw that sadness crossed his face.

"Alas!" said Frodo. "That was indeed Boromir as I knew him. For the golden belt was given to him in Lothlórien by the Lady Galadriel. She it was that clothed us as you see us, in elven-grey. This brooch is of the same workmanship."

_Thence came its familiarity! This little Halfling has seen more than any man now living, no doubt._ He looked on him with new wonder. "So then you passed through the Land of Lórien? Laurelindórenan it was named of old, but long now it has lain beyond the knowledge of Men. Much that was strange about you I begin now to understand. You passed through the Hidden land, but it seems that you little understand its power. If Men have dealings with the Mistress of Magic who dwells in the Golden Wood, then they may look for strange things to follow. For it is perilous for mortal man to walk out of the world of this Sun, and few of old came thence unchanged, 'tis said." Suddenly tears unbidden filled his eyes. _"Boromir, O Boromir!"_ he cried, and his men looked on him wonderingly, their strong Captain. _"What did she say to you, the Lady that dies not! What did she see? What woke in your heart then? Why went you ever to Laurelindórenan, and came not by your own road, upon the horses of Rohan, riding home in the morning?"_ And his heart cried, _It should have been mine, the quest, and mine, the dying!_

But Frodo could tell him nothing of the death of Boromir, and he begged, "Will you not put aside your doubt of me and let me go? I am weary, and full of grief, and afraid. But I have a deed to do, or attempt, before I too am slain. Go back, Faramir, valiant Captain of Gondor, and defend your city while you may, and let me go where my doom takes me."

Faramir was filled with pity and admiration and a stir of affection for him, this Hobbit who seemed as if he should never have had to leave the sweet serenity of home for a huge, hard, painful world. He wanted to let him go; nay, he wanted to send him back home to peace and rest. But there was more to think of, and maybe there would soon be no more peace and rest in Middle-earth. "For me there is no comfort in our speech together. But whatever befell on the North Marches, you, Frodo, I doubt no longer. But more lies upon our words together than I thought at first. I should now take you back to Minas Tirith to answer there to Denethor, and my life will be justly forfeit if I now choose a course that proves ill for my city. So I will not decide in haste what is to be done. Yet we must move hence without more delay. In the morning I will decide what is best for me to do, and for you."

He rose and gave orders, and with speed the Rangers melted into the trees. With Faramir went the two Hobbits and their two guards, and Faramir drew Frodo a little ahead as they walked the ten miles to Henneth Annûn.

"You were not wholly frank with me, Frodo."

"I told no lies, and of the truth all I could," said Frodo.

"I do not blame you. You spoke with skill in a hard place, and wisely, it seemed to me. But I learned or guessed more from you than your words said. You were not friendly with Boromir, or you did not part in friendship. You, and Master Samwise, too, I guess, have some grievance." He stared down at the ground silently a moment. "Now I loved him dearly, and would gladly avenge his death, yet I knew him well." He had always been able to see his brother clearly, loving him yet free of the hero worship many men of Gondor had for the High Warden of the White Tower. He had never been blind to the things that drove Boromir. _"Isildur's Bane_—I would hazard that Isildur's Bane lay between you and was a cause of contention in your Company. Clearly it is a mighty heirloom of some sort, and such things do not breed peace among confederates, not if aught may be learned from ancient tales. He wished this thing brought to Minas Tirith."

Frodo said nothing, and Faramir suddenly cried passionately, "Alas! It is a crooked fate that seals your lips who saw him last and holds from me that which I long to know: what was in his heart and thought in his latest hours. Whether he erred or no, of this I am sure: he died well, achieving some good thing." Again Boromir passed before him, drifting in the elven boat. He whispered, "His face was more beautiful even than in life.

"But, Frodo, I pressed you hard at first about Isildur's Bane_._ Forgive me! It was unwise in such an hour and place. I had not had time for thought. You must know that much is still preserved of ancient lore among the Rulers of the city that is not spread abroad. And this I remember of Boromir as a boy, when we together learned the tale of our sires and the history of our city, that it always displeased him that his father was not king. 'How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king, if the king returns not?' he asked." _And I would remind him of the sacred duty of stewardship and the honour of it, but he would still remain displeased._ "Alas! Poor Boromir. Does that not tell you something?"

"It does," said Frodo. "Yet he always treated Aragorn with honour."

"I doubt it not. If he were satisfied with Aragorn's claim, as you say, he would greatly reverence him. We in the house of Denethor know much ancient lore by old tradition." Reminiscently he spoke of the great treasuries of written and preserved lore, and he wished he could go back to his study of them. Few now ever unlocked them. "It was these records that brought the Grey Pilgrim to us. I first saw him when I was a child, and he has been twice or thrice since then. Mithrandir we call him in the elf-fashion."

"Gandalf!" said Frodo. "Gandalf the Grey, dearest of counsellors. Leader of our company. He was lost in Moria."

"Mithrandir was lost!" said Faramir. "An evil fate seems to have pursued your fellowship." He remembered Mithrandir with affection and reverence, the hours he would spend talking with a young, eager boy, the wonderful things he did in Minas Tirith. How could such an one be gone? "Are you sure of this, and that he did not just leave you and depart where he would?"

"Alas! yes," said Frodo. "I saw him fall into the abyss."

_These are evil times. So much great loss._ "This Mithrandir was, I now guess, more than a lore-master: a great mover of the deeds that are done in our time. Had he been among us to consult concerning the hard words of our dream, he could have made them clear to us without need of messenger. Yet, maybe, he would not have done so, and the journey of Boromir was doomed. Mithrandir never spoke to us of what was to be, nor did he reveal his purposes." He lowered his voice to a whisper and began to tell Frodo things he had told no Man: his guesses as to why Mithrandir sought for news of Isildur and the Great Battle in which the Enemy was overthrown; his speculations about Isildur's Bane being something taken from the hand of the Unnamed, some fell weapon created by the Dark Lord. He had thought much on this thing and on Isildur's Bane and concluded they must be the same. "If it were a thing that gave advantage in battle, I can well believe that Boromir, the proud and fearless, often rash, ever anxious for the victory of Minas Tirith (and his own glory therein) might desire such a thing and be allured by it. Alas that ever he went on that errand! I should have been chosen, but he put himself forward, and he would not be stayed." _O Boromir, Boromir, why did you rush to your destruction? Why would you not hear wisdom? Is it this thing that spelled your doom? Anything taken from the Unnamed One must be of great evil, and how could a mortal Man hope to wield it?_

"But fear no more!" he said to Frodo. "I would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway. Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and I alone could save her, so, using the weapon of the Dark Lord for her good and my glory." _For I would use it for her good, and it would be her ruin, her Bane as it was Isildur's._ "No, I do not wish for such triumphs, Frodo son of Drogo. For myself, I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Arnor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves." His voice rang out passionately, all the old longing welling up. He could see it in his mind, and he could see a figure of a king, tall and dark, bearing a shining star on his forehead. "War must be," he said a little sadly, scarcely believing that this vision could ever come true, "while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Númenor, and I would have her loved for her memory, her ancestry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise." _And that is the difference between us, Boromir my brother._ He walked on as if in a dream, and somehow he saw how his brother could become a great and feared tyrant of a beautiful and cruel city, and how that city's beauty could become an ugliness in the eyes of the world. And he saw how a gentle and glorious king could restore peace and beauty to the hurting city.

So they continued on in silence, each thinking his own thoughts, until they came to where the small river that ran over Henneth Annûn began to become swift, and there, according to ancient custom, Faramir blindfolded the hobbits, and the guards led them gently along the last mile and into Henneth Annûn, the Window of the Sunset, fairest of all the falls of Ithilien, land of many fountains. There the blindfolds were removed, and the hobbits looked around in wonder at the fall before the mouth of the cave and the larger cave they were led to. It was the ancient refuge of the Rangers of Ithilien, and it was as home to Faramir. The constant sound of water falling soothed after a fight and calmed the mind for deep thought. When planning strategies, he would often stand for hours together looking out through the curtain of water, and all knew not to disturb him.

The hobbits were taken to a corner and given a low bed to lie on, if they wished. Meanwhile men busied themselves about the cave, quietly and in orderly quickness, preparing for a simple meal. Faramir went about among the men, questioning each as he came in, in a soft voice. Only Anborn saw anything of note, a shape like a shadow on the ground that slipped easily into the gloom. Faramir gave quiet orders for a sharp eye to be kept for it. Frodo had fallen into an exhausted sleep, and Samwise clearly wanted to, but it seemed he had appointed himself guardian of his master. Faramir's heart warmed to him as he determinedly stuck his knuckles in his eyes and remained watching the Men suspiciously. Soon the meal was prepared, though, and all gathered around the tables. Before they ate, Faramir and all his men turned and faced west in a moment of silence, looking toward Númenor that was in the past, and beyond to Elvenhome that was in the present, and to that which was beyond Elvenhome and ever would be. Then they drank well of pale yellow wine and ate well of the bread and butter, salted meats, dried fruits, and good red cheese, and all marvelled at the amounts the hobbits consumed.

After the meal, Faramir led the hobbits to a curtained niche and asked them to tell him of Boromir his brother, and of old Mithrandir, and of the fair people of Lothlórien. And Frodo told many tales, and though Faramir knew he kept purposefully from the purpose of his quest, he let it be, for he hungered to hear of his brother. He heard much of Boromir's valiance and strength, but one story moved him more than the others, that of a fight in a Dwarf mine against a fiery demon called a Balrog.

"Maybe it would have been better had Boromir fallen there with Mithrandir and not gone on to the fate that waited above the falls of Rauros," he said, his eyes dark with sorrow.

"Maybe. But tell me now of your own fortunes." Once again the hobbit turned the matter aside. "For I would learn more of Minas Ithil and Osgiliath and Minas Tirith the long-enduring. What hope have you for that city in your long war?"

"What hope have we?" said Faramir, betraying his weariness with slumped shoulders and bowed head. _A never-ending war we have always waged, and what will it come to but more death?_ "It is long since we have had any hope. The sword of Elendil, if it returns indeed, may rekindle it, but I do not think that it will do more than put off the evil day, unless other help unlooked-for also comes, from Elves or Men. For the Enemy increases, and we decrease. We are a failing people, a springless autumn." _And I, I am eternally caught in a changeless autumn, wishing for but unable to see the green of spring._ He sighed and began to tell tales of his own, the lore he had studied of the Men of Númenor, tales of the beauty and wickedness of Men, of the realm of Gondor and the sons of Elendil, of the proud, fierce people of the North who became the Rohirrim and the love the men of Gondor bore them, who reminded them of the youth of Men, as they were in the Elder Days, and of how Boromir had reminded him of the Rohirrim. "For as the Rohirrim do, we now love war and valour as things good in themselves; and though we still hold that a warrior should have more skills and knowledge than only the craft of weapons and slaying, we esteem a warrior, nonetheless, above men of other crafts." _Thus am I a disappointment to Denethor, for given my will, I would give up the sword and bow, while Boromir was fully a warrior. And it is he that is dead and I that live. Why should cruel fate thus befall my father and my brother and myself?_ "Such is the need of our days," he said as if to himself. "So even was my brother, Boromir: a man of prowess, and for that he was accounted the best man in Gondor. And very valiant indeed he was: no heir of Minas Tirith has for long years been so hardy in toil, or so onward into battle, or blown a mightier note on the Great Horn." He sighed again and fell silent, and his eyes saw Boromir blowing the horn from the White Tower with the wild joy he was capable of.

Then he spoke of Elves for Samwise's benefit, of the ancient alliances and the sad sundering of fellowship. "Yet there are among us still some who have dealings with the Elves when they may, and ever and anon one will go in secret to Lórien, seldom to return. Not I. For I deem it perilous now for mortal man to wilfully seek out the Elder People. Yet I envy you that you have spoken with the White Lady."

"The Lady of Lórien! Galadriel!" cried Samwise. Then he spoke of that lady, and his words came eager and quick, eloquent for such a simple hobbit.

"She must be lovely indeed," said Faramir. "Perilously fair."

"I don't know about _perilous_. It strikes me that folk takes their peril with them into Lórien and finds it there because they've brought it. Now Boro—" He stopped and went red in the face.

"Yes? _Now Boromir_ you would say? What would you say? He took his peril with him?" _I doubt it not. Can this simple gardener give me more news than his master?_

"Yes, sir, begging your pardon, and a fine man as your brother was, if I may say so. Now I watched Boromir and listened to him, from Rivendell all down the road—looking after my master, as you'll understand, and not meaning any harm to Boromir—and it's my opinion that in Lórien he first saw clearly what I guessed sooner: what he wanted. From the moment he first saw it he wanted the Enemy's Ring!"

"Sam!" cried Frodo aghast.

_Ring? The Ring? This token Frodo carries? The Enemy's One Ring? But it was destroyed long ago! Was it not? Is this what destroyed Isildur and my brother?_ He looked quickly at Frodo and saw the truth in his horrified face.

"Save me!" cried Sam. "There I go again! _Whenever you open your big mouth, you put your foot in it,_ the Gaffer used to say to me, and right enough. O dear, O dear!" He stood and stared Faramir in the eyes. "Now look here, sir! Don't you go taking advantage of my master because his servant's no better than a fool. You've spoken very handsome all along, put me off my guard, talking of Elves and all. But _handsome is as handsome does,_ we say. Now's a chance to show your quality."

Suddenly Faramir remembered his father's words, and something said to him that this was the thing that would win his father's love. A greater thing than ever Boromir had brought, and Denethor would see that his second son was worth something after all. "So it seems," he said slowly and very softly, and it seemed as if he spoke ideas that came from somewhere outside him. "So that is the answer to all the riddles! The One Ring that was thought to have perished from the world. And Boromir tried to take it by force? And you escaped? And ran all the way—to me! And here in the wild I have you: two halflings, and a host of men at my call, and the Ring of Rings. A pretty stroke of fortune! A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality. Ha!" And the desire for his father's love filled his ears with a rushing, but there was something else, a shouting whisper that cried, _Fly! Fly from this thing! Or it will speed you to your destruction as it did Boromir._ And he fought with his emotion, and he remembered all he had taught himself, and his virtue and nobility won. For he knew there was more at stake than a father's love for his son. He laughed a little in his triumph over himself and then suddenly became grave again as he saw the two hobbits backing away with drawn swords. _I could never take a thing by force from you, small friends._

"Alas for Boromir! It was too sore a trial," he said softly. "How you have increased my sorrow, you two strange wanderers from a far country, bearing the peril of Men! But you are less judges of Men than I of Halflings. We are truth-speakers, we Men of Gondor. We boast seldom, and then perform, or die in the attempt. _Not if I found it on the highway would I take it,_ I said. Even if I were such a man as to desire this thing, and even though I knew not clearly what this thing was when I spoke, still should I take these words as a vow, and be held by them. But I am not such a man." He looked at them with all the intensity of his grey eyes. _From whence came that temptation? For I have long resisted any thought of using evil for my own good, and well I know that my father's love will not be gained, whatever great deeds I may do._ "Or I am wise enough to know that there are some perils from which a man must flee. Sit at peace!" He stretched out a hand to them, and they stared at it as if wondering whether to trust it. "Be comforted, Samwise. If you seem to have stumbled, think that it was fated to be so. Your heart is shrewd as well as faithful, and saw clearer than your eyes. For strange though it may seem, it was safe to declare this to me." _Safe? Was it so? Yes, for never could I have done this thing, and never could I have wielded the abhorred Ring of the Unnamed One._ He smiled. "So be comforted. But do not name this thing again. Once is enough."

They sat again, sheathing their swords, and they were very quiet, whether recovering from fear or meditating on the odd ways of the world, Faramir could not tell. He looked on their small figures and plain, good faces, and he loved them.

"Well, Frodo, now at last we understand one another. If you took this thing on yourself, unwilling, at others' asking, then you have pity and honour from me." He bowed his head before their astonished eyes. "And I marvel at you: to keep it hid and not use it. You are a new people and a new world to me. And you are far from home and wayworn. No more tonight. Sleep, both of you—in peace, if you can." _Yet how can there be peace for this one if he carries that Thing?_ "Fear not! I do not wish to see it, or touch it, or know more of it than I know (which is enough), lest peril perchance waylay me and I fall lower in the test than Frodo son of Drogo. Go now to rest—but first tell me only, if you will, whither you wish to go, and what to do. For I must watch, and wait, and think. Time passes. In the morning we must each go swiftly on the ways appointed to us." _Though the Steward slay me for it, I will let them go._

Frodo rose, and great weariness hung on him. "I was going to find a way into Mordor," he said faintly. "I was going to Gorgoroth. I must find the Mountain of Fire and cast the thing into the gulf of Doom. I do not think I shall ever get there."

Faramir's astonishment was so great he could not even think. But he saw that Frodo was swaying with weariness, and he reached out and lifted him as a child, and set him on the bed and covered him warmly. Frodo immediately slept, and Faramir stood staring down at him, filled with admiration and pain. _This quest should not have been laid on him. Yet I see that these Hobbits have great, unseen strength._

Samwise was hesitating beside him. Finally he bowed low. "Good night, Captain, my lord. You took the chance, sir."

"Did I so?"

"Yes, sir, and showed your quality: the very highest." His eyes were warm and serious.

_A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality: the very highest. You do my heart good, little hobbit._ He smiled. "A pert servant, Master Samwise. But nay: the praise of the praiseworthy is above all rewards."

"Ah well, sir, you have an air that reminds me of, well—Gandalf, of wizards."

_You do me honour._ "Maybe. Maybe you discern from far away the air of Númenor. Good night!"

Samwise lay down, and this time he, too, slept. Neither hobbit stirred for hours, but through the long watches of the night, Faramir sat looking out through the curtain of water, deep in thought.

_Riddles, riddles. 'Seek for the Sword that was Broken.' Elendil's sword, borne by one Aragorn son of Arathorn. 'The Halfling forth shall stand.' An unknown people breaking suddenly into the history of the world, small, simple, honest creatures, people of peace and quiet, bearing the greatest weapon, the greatest evil in living history. 'For Isildur's Bane shall waken.' 'There shall be shown a token that doom is at hand.' Doom indeed. Our doom has always stared at us from that Dark Land, from the time the Nine Lords of fear took our sister city and converted her to a place of horror and decay, Minas Morgul. Long have we kept that terror at bay for the rest of Middle-earth, but how long may the west shores of Anduin be held? The Nameless Enemy arises, and the One Ring is found, that which we long thought destroyed. Found and borne back to the stronghold that desires it! He goes to Mordor, this weak creature, to the land no Man dares approach! He would climb the very Mountain of Fire across the vale of Gorgoroth under the Eye itself._

Tears came unwitting to his eyes. _Such a quest should not have been given to him, nor to his valiant gardener. For they will die, and though all Middle-earth may be saved, yet they will be dead, and worse yet may befall them than death. And maybe it is that the Enemy will be victorious, and then the only recourse of any Man—or Hobbit—who had not the fortune to die in battle will be his own sword point._


	5. Into Shadow

**Into Shadow**

**Chapter 5**

Gathering a city's women, children, old, and infirm to flee to a safehold in the mountains was not an easy nor small task. Éowyn sent out her swiftest riders, young women, to bring the king's orders to the surrounding villages and prepare the people to move. She herself gathered supplies for her household and marshalled the people of Edoras. It was not for nothing that Éowyn, daughter of kings, had been given leadership, for she had a quick mind to know what needed to be done and a commanding presence when needed. By dawn of the day after the host of Rohan had left, the people were moving south to Dunharrow. The journey was not over two days' march, but the people were spread out, and they bore children and the ill. Éowyn and her Riders rode up and down the long line, hurrying them along, offering encouragement, keeping sharp eyes alert for any sign of danger. Each of Éowyn's Riders was fully mail-clad, carried a tall ash spear and a round shield, and had a sword at her side. All had experience in fighting, though none so much as any man in Rohan, and with both the fighting spirit of the Rohirrim and the fierce protectiveness of womanhood, they would make a formidable foe.

It had not been easy, forcing the people from their homes, not allowing them the treasures of their lives to bear to hiding when they could not bear the thought of foul orcs burning or stealing or destroying them, but the people loved and trusted the Lady Éowyn, though she seemed to them grim and cold. During the whole ride she was thinking and pondering, both organizing what must be accomplished at Dunharrow and thinking about the host of Rohan, the great deeds that would befall them, the glory of riding with the king. Almost she wanted some danger, some attack on this slow march to relieve the monotony and allow her to feel useful and _alive,_ though she wished no harm on her people, but the journey was accomplished in safety. Cries of joy went up as they came down the last hills through the gloom of soft-sighing trees, weary from the mountainous way, and saw the Harrowdale before them, loud with the noise of waters in the evening, ever-mounting slopes, great walls of stone, and frowning precipices wreathed with mist surrounding the great, hidden valley. The white Snowbourne river flowed near to the western walls of the dale, and their path down from the mountains led them to a ford where the shallow waters murmured loudly on the stones. The ford was guarded by the men of Harrowdale, but Éowyn had sent one of her Riders ahead, and they were expected. Dúnhere, chieftain of the folk of Harrowdale, rode out from the shadow of the rocks to meet Éowyn.

"Hail, Lady," he said, touching spear to helm. "You have come in good time. All is prepared for you, and news has reached us from the king. The Fords of Isen were taken yesterday, Erkenbrand had retreated, and the Riders turned toward Helm's Deep, whence they expected a great battle which no doubt took place in the night or this morn. We feared much for you and the people of Edoras this day, and it gladdens my heart that you are well."

"I thank you, Dúnhere. Naught has been heard by us, nor did we see any enemy. Where will you have these people rest from their weary way?"

"We have already booths and tents in the Hold on the Firienfeld, my lady. The path and gorge are guarded, the ford is guarded, and we will mount guard around the encampment."

"Nay, good Dúnhere, spare your men for greater need that will no doubt arise in these dark times. My Riders will serve for our guard and will prove no less vigilant than your men."

Dúnhere gazed on her as she said this and thought that she seemed strong and stern and grim, and her mail-clad female Riders with long, pale hair flowing were bright of eye and fell of face, and he bowed in his saddle. "So be it, lady!"

"Tonight I will guard with the Riders, and tomorrow I will prepare for the king's coming after his victory." She refused to consider that he and Helm's Deep with him, and Aragorn and his companions, might have fallen.

"And I will ride to Edoras with a few of my men and learn what news there may be." Dúnhere saluted her again, motioned to four of his men, and rode down the path the people of Edoras had just walked.

After their long march, it was a weary walk up to the Firienfeld. A path wound, coiling like a snake, boring its way across the sheer slope of the eastern cliff wall, steep as a stair. The nimble horses of Rohan could climb it, but no enemy could come that way, except out of the air, if it was defended from above. Éowyn took no thought of the huge, mournfully ugly figures of the Púkel-men that stood at each turning of the road. At last the road passed into a cutting between walls of rock, and so went up a short slope and out into a wide upland, the Firienfeld, a green mountain-field of grass and heath, high above the deep-delved courses of the Snowbourne. The Firienfeld lay between two mountains, the Starkhorn southwards and Irensaga northwards, and a road formed by a double line of unshaped standing stones divided it in two down the middle and dwindled into the dusk and vanished in the trees that hid the black Dimholt under eastern Dwimorberg. Such was the dark Dunharrow, the work of long-forgotten men.

Tents were set up to the right of the path, and the people moved toward them. A great pavilion stood on the left of the path, and near it Éowyn set up her own tent. Soon the people were rested and fed, and silence fell with darkness over the hidden stronghold. In the cold, grey early morning after a sleepless night of watch, Éowyn began preparing the pavilion for the king and setting up other tents for those who would accompany him, lighting fires to cheer the camp and setting up tall torches for light. Here she was joined by many willing helpers, but surrounded as she was by her people and so much work, she had rarely felt so alone and useless. Quietly she went to her tasks while her mind rebelled and her heart felt harder and colder than the huge stones that stood near her encampment.

All too soon the work was done and the people left to wait for news, or attack. As dawn came the following day, Éowyn began to drill her Riders against the eastern cliff, and the Harrowdale rang with sword against sword, thundering hoof beats, the solid _thunk_ of ash spear and yew arrow. No marshal of the Mark trained his men harder than Éowyn her women for the next few days, and no complaint nor murmur was heard.

Three days after their arrival, Dúnhere and his men returned, and the chieftain of Harrowdale came up to the Firienfeld to tell Éowyn his news.

"We came to Edoras and all was quiet, my lady, but at dawn Gandalf came riding out of the east as if on an errand of the gravest peril, but he stayed to give us news. Helm's Deep was assailed by many orcs, but at the last the defenders had the victory, and the king now rides for Dunharrow. Gandalf hinted at strange happenings but had little time to give a full accounting. He rides for Gondor, and on that great horse he may be very near now, with his small burden. He bore a small being that was like a child but was not a child and was wrapped in a grey cloak of mysterious make. Soon after they entered the hall of Meduseld, a winged Shadow, a flying darkness in the shape of a monstrous bird, passed over Edoras, and all the men were shaken with fear. For it stooped upon Meduseld, and as it came low, almost to the gable, there came a cry that stopped our hearts. It was then that Gandalf counseled us not to assemble in the fields but to meet the king here in the valley under the mountains. And he bade us to kindle no more lights or fires than barest need asked. The full strength of the Rohirrim will assemble here. We must prepare."

So now the valley was dim with few lights, but noise rang out as company after company of Riders came, and the Harrowdale filled on all the level spaces with a great concourse of men. Stretching away into the distance there were soon ordered rows of tents and booths, and lines of picketed horses, and great stores of arms, and piled spears bristling like thickets of new-planted trees. Though late winter chill was in the air, no lanterns glowed and no fires were lit. Watchmen heavily cloaked paced to and fro. Up on the Firienfeld the captains and marshals gathered and pitched their tents to the right of the path, but they took care not to set them near the trees, seeming rather to huddle away from them towards the brink of the cliff.

In all this bustle and work, Éowyn had not stopped thinking about Dúnhere's words. _A great victory at Helm's Deep, yet we hear only the barest news, we who did not take part. Are all then well, all of Gandalf's companions, all my kin? To my shame, my thoughts went first to Aragorn before my uncle and brother. The king lives, and my brother, or Gandalf would have told his death, but he would not send news to me of his three companions. And what is this small creature Dúnhere spoke of, wearing a like cloak to Aragorn and the Elf and Dwarf? Why rides Gandalf to Gondor? And what may be this new terror, the winged Shadow? If its very call freezes men's hearts inside them, how can we stand against it? _

At nightfall the following day, news came to Éowyn of a company descending from the western hills, a company of men clad in dark grey with excellent but rough-haired horses, and at their head was Aragorn son of Arathorn, no longer on Rohan mount, and his two companions, Legolas and Gimli. Then her heart was glad, more glad than it had been for many waxings of the Moon, and she bade the messenger bring them to Firienfeld.

As they came riding up the winding path into the few lights around her camp, she thought that no mightier men had she seen than those strong and lordly men, plainly dressed and harnessed save for a brooch of silver shaped like a rayed star on the left shoulder of each. They were grim men of face, worn like weathered rocks, even as Aragorn himself, and they were armed with spear and bow and sword. With them were two tall men that Éowyn thought must be Elves, for they were like Legolas in that they were neither young nor old, neither merry nor sad, and they were fair and gallant, and their gear, bright mail beneath cloaks of silver-grey, was less sombre than the others'. So much alike were they that she could not tell them apart: dark-haired, grey-eyed, and their faces elven-fair. But it was on Aragorn most of all that her eyes rested. It seemed to her that he bore the weight of many years and a dark errand.

"Hail, Lady of Rohan!" he said.

"Hail, Aragorn. You and your company are welcome."

"These are the Dúnedain, Rangers of the North, of whom I am their leader, and with them ride Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond of Rivendell."

"I greet you," she said to them. "I am Éowyn, niece and handmaiden to Théoden king of Rohan. Please take your rest and eat with me."

They dismounted and cared for their horses, and she served them such food as she had and questioned Aragorn closely on the victory at Helm's Deep. He told her how the host of Rohan had ridden from Edoras and met a rider on the second day who told them of Erkenbrand's defeat at the Fords of Isen, where Théodred had fallen scarce two weeks before. They had made for Helm's Deep, hoping to meet Erkenbrand there, in his great fortress, but though many of the people of the Westfold had fled to refuge in the caves there, Erkenbrand and his men had not been heard from. Gandalf had gone to seek them out. He described the vast hosts of Isengard, the difficult wait as they approached the gate and walls of the Hornburg. And much he had to say about the battle and the valour of the men of Rohan and the Westfold, and he told her of at last drawing sword with Éomer, Andúril for the Dúnedain alongside Gúthwinë for the Mark, in the defense of the gates, and spoke warmly of her brother's skill and valiance. Then the dark time just before the dawn when men grew weary and arrows were spent, and the enemy revealed a new devilry of flame and destruction, and the taking of the Deeping Wall.

"And there was another great blast of fire, but close upon its heels came, sudden and terrible, the sound of the great horn of Helm. Back from the Deep the echoes came, blast upon blast, as if on every cliff and hill a mighty herald stood. And with that the king came. His horse was white as snow, golden was his shield, and his spear was long. Behind him rode the lords of the House of Eorl the Young. Light sprang into the sky. Night departed.

"With the cry of your people, 'Forth Eorlingas!', he charged, and neither orc nor man could withstand him. So King Théoden rode from Helm's Gate and clove his path to the great Dike. But there we saw that a change had come over the Deeping Coomb, and it was filled with trees where no trees had been before. There now cowered the proud hosts of Saruman, in terror of the king and in terror of the trees.

"Then suddenly upon a ridge appeared a rider, Gandalf, clad in white, shining in the rising sun, and behind him, hastening down the long slopes, were a thousand men on foot, the men of Erkenbrand. Again the horn sounded from the tower. Down through the breach of the Dike charged the king's company. Down from the hills leaped Erkenbrand. Down leaped Shadowfax. The White Rider was upon them, and the terror of his coming filled the enemy with madness. Wailing they passed under the waiting shadow of the trees; and from that shadow none ever came again."

The strong, quiet voice of Aragorn ceased, and Éowyn's eyes shone. Oh, to have been with the king on that glorious, desperate charge! He was again the man he had once been, and more.

"But my lady," Gimli the Dwarf spoke up, "though great indeed were the deeds of Théoden, Éomer, Gandalf, and Erkenbrand, do not think that because he mentions it not Aragorn sat quietly in the Glittering Caves! He was like a storm amid the orcs, and he rode beside the king in the charge from the gate. What say you, Legolas?"

"Many lives of Men have I lived," the Elf answered quietly, "but never have I seen a Man more fell."

"I doubt it not," Éowyn said, turning her shining eyes on him. "But, Lords, you are weary and shall now go to your beds with such ease as can be contrived in haste. But tomorrow fairer housing shall be found for you."

"Nay, lady," Aragorn said, "be not troubled for us. If we may lie here tonight and break our fast tomorrow, it will be enough. For I ride on an errand most urgent, and with the first light of morning we must go."

_Then why came you here? Could it be--?_ A smile crept over her features, and she said, "Then it was kindly done, lord, to ride so many miles out of your way to bring tidings to Éowyn, and to speak with her in her exile."

"Indeed no man would count such a journey wasted," he smiled, "and yet, Lady, I could not have come hither, if it were not that the road which I must take leads me to Dunharrow."

She stared at him blankly for a moment, afraid to think of what he might be saying. "Then, lord, you are astray; for out of Harrowdale no road runs east or south; and you had best return as you came."

"Nay, lady," said he, "I am not astray; for I walked in this land ere you were born to grace it. There is a road out of this valley, and that road I shall take. Tomorrow I shall ride by the Paths of the Dead."

Her heart stopped within her, and she felt herself go white. _No man may go that way and live!_ It was an odd fortune that caused the Rohirrim to seek refuge next to that which they feared most. No man knew what lay beyond the forbidden Door at the end of the path of unhewn standing stones, but ancient legend said that it led to a secret way that went beneath the mountain to some forgotten end. Folk said that Dead Men out of the Dark Years guarded the way and would suffer no living man to come to their hidden halls. One man named Baldor, son of Brego, had once ventured to search its secrets and was never seen among men again, never to come to the high seat at Meduseld of which he was heir. _He is fey, like one whom the Dead call!_ she thought as she gazed on him in fear. "But, Aragorn," she said at last, "is it then your errand to seek death? For that is all you will find on that road. They do not suffer the living to pass."

"They may suffer me to pass," said Aragorn, and with such a lordly air that she stared at him. "But at the least I will adventure it. No other road will serve."

"But this is madness!" Éowyn persisted, desperate to turn him from it. "For here are men of renown and prowess, whom you should not take into shadows, but should lead to war, where men are needed. I beg you to remain and ride with my brother, for then all our hearts will be gladdened and our hope be the brighter." She did not dare separate herself from her people in her words, did not dare to say _her_ heart would be gladdened by his presence as it had been by nothing before. _I know that if anyone can help this heart in me as Gandalf helped Théoden, it is you. Do not go!_

"It is not madness, lady," he said both sternly and gently, "for I go on a path appointed. But those who follow me do so of their free will; and if they wish now to remain and ride with the Rohirrim, they may do so. But I shall take the Paths of the Dead, alone, if needs be."

Silence fell, and Éowyn could not take her eyes from his face. _So you ride to your death, and you spell also the death of my heart, for no one can now revive it. No one may know how the darkness Gríma wove round my uncle remains in me, and not even Gandalf the White can dispel it. The one who perhaps may have been able rides to his destruction and not in battle to his glory. _

The men began to rise and thank her for her care and go to their rest, and Aragorn, thoughtful of face, went also with Legolas and Gimli, and Éowyn sat a moment longer. _I must stop him,_ her heart cried, _or I must die!_ and she rose, determined, her eyes on fire. She caught him before he entered the booth where he was to lodge.

"Aragorn, why will you go on this deadly road?"

"Because I must. Only so can I see any hope of doing my part in the war against Sauron. I do not choose paths of peril, Éowyn. Were I to go where my heart dwells . . ." He paused, and his eyes strayed north, sadly and longingly, an expression she had never seen in them. ". . . far in the North I would now be wandering in the fair valley of Rivendell."

What did he mean? Did he simply prefer the peace of the North, of Rivendell? Or did he hint that his heart belonged to more there than the land and peace? She trembled both at the import of his words and at his gentle wisdom. _Then there is nothing for me to do but to die living, but if I may die at his side . . ._ "Lord," she said, "if you must go, then let me ride in your following. For I am weary of skulking in the hills and wish to face peril and battle."

For a moment he looked at her as if trying to read her, and pity there was in his look but sternness as well. "Your duty is with your people."

Suddenly something blazed up in her: anger and a rebellion she'd never felt, and she cried passionately what she had never spoken aloud: "Too long have I heard of duty! But am I not of the House of Eorl, a shieldmaiden and not a dry nurse? I have waited on faltering feet long enough. Since they falter no longer, it seems, may I not now spend my life as I will?"

And he seemed to look sad, but still he spoke sternly. "Few may do that with honour. But as for you, lady: did you not accept the charge to govern the people until their lord's return? If you had not been chosen, then some marshal or captain would have been set in the same place, and he could not ride away from his charge, were he weary of it or no."

"Shall I always be chosen?" she said bitterly. "Shall I always be left behind when the Riders depart, to mind the house while they win renown, and find food and beds when they return?"

"A time may come soon," said he, "when none will return." His eyes blazed into hers. "Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defense of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised."

All was settling again into a dead darkness and she looked at Aragorn and hated him and loved him. "All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death."

"What do you fear, lady?" he asked, so softly she almost wept.

"A cage," she whispered. "To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire."

"And yet you counselled me not to advance on the road I had chosen, because it is perilous?"

"I do not bid you flee from peril, but to ride to battle where your sword may win renown and victory. I would not see a thing that high and excellent cast away needlessly."

Aragorn reached out a hand to her arm. "Nor would I," he said. "Therefore I say to you, lady: Stay! For you have no errand to the South."

"Neither have those who go with thee. They go only because they would not be parted from thee—because they love thee." And as she heard this admission cross her lips, she turned and ran, leaving him standing there with eyes full of her pain.

Éowyn did not return to her tent that night, but she walked, and she found herself going between the lines of ancient stones and coming to a place she had never gone, the Dimholt. Fear was all around her, but it was not blacker than her despair, and almost she welcomed it. But she could not stay there, so she walked back down the long path and up to the very edge of the cliff overlooking the Harrowdale. And so long, sleepless hours passed, and in the chill before dawn she went to her tent and clad herself as a Rider and girt about her her sword, and she filled a cup with wine and waited for the stirrings of the Grey Company. When all were mounted and Aragorn about to leap into the saddle, she came forth and set the cup to her lips and drank a little, wishing them good speed. Then she gave it to Aragorn, and he drank, and he said, "Farewell, Lady of Rohan! I drink to the fortunes of your House, and of you, and of all your people. Say to your brother: beyond the shadows we may meet again!"

And her tears flowed, and she said, "Aragorn, wilt thou go?"

"I will," he said.

"Then wilt thou not let me ride with this company, as I have asked?"

"I will not, lady. For that I could not grant without leave of the king and of your brother; and they will not return until tomorrow. But I count now every hour, indeed every minute. Farewell!"

Then she fell on her knees, saying, "I beg thee!"

"Nay, lady," he said sadly, and he took her hand and gently raised her. Then he kissed her hand, and sprang into the saddle, and rode way, and did not look back.

But Éowyn stood still as a figure carven in stone, her hands clenched at her sides, and she watched them until they passed into the shadows under the black Dwimorberg, the Haunted Mountain, in which was the gate of the dead. When they were lost to view, she turned, stumbling as one that is blind, and went back to her lodging. And she laid herself down on her cot and wept her agony with silent sobs and silent cry: _Why was I born a woman? Oh, why was I born at all?_

* * *

Faramir sat breaking his fast with the two Hobbits, his mind troubled about them, for he had learned more news during the night about which he could not quiet his thoughts. Anborn, keeping watch over the Forbidden Pool, had brought word that Frodo's second companion was seen diving into the Pool. This was a great danger to the safety of Henneth Annûn, and his first instinct was to order it shot, but then he caught a glimpse of Frodo's sleeping face, lined with weariness, and he wondered whether that action would cause more weariness and care to the small hobbit. Then he reminded himself to stop thinking of the hobbits as small. Frodo was probably older than he himself, and he had undertaken a task Faramir knew even Boromir would never have dared. That alone made him bigger in spirit than any Man of Gondor or elsewhere. And young Samwise, not very wise or intelligent at all, had, he suspected, what was needed to get Frodo to his destination – or maybe his doom.

So he had awakened the master and brought him to the pool, the servant tenaciously following, and there was the odd creature Frodo had called a wretched, gangrel creature. Faramir had instantly hated the sight of the loathsome thing, reading murder in its past, but at Frodo's somewhat reluctant request, he had spared its life. And he had learned many things about it. Its name was Sméagol, and, wonder of wonders, it had once born Frodo's burden. Therein was some great tale, no doubt. Mithrandir had forbidden its slaying, so Faramir had ordered it captured alive, though his far-seeing eyes detected evil and malice about it. The look on Samwise's face told him the servant would rather slay the creature than allow it to continue one more step with his master, but the master declared Sméagol to be their guide. Faramir questioned the creature and found it had never come this way before, and loth though he was to let it live, he at least promised not to kill it as long as it was in Frodo's company. And he declared Frodo and those under his protection free in the land of Gondor for a year and a day. And when he discovered that Sméagol was taking the hobbits through Cirith Ungol, he saw a gleam of malice and hate in its pale eyes, and he gave Frodo warning about that dark pass with its dark terror and the horrors of Minas Morgul.

"But where else will you guide me?" Frodo had asked. "If I turn back, refusing the road in its bitter end, where then shall I go among Elves or Men? Would you have me come to Gondor with this Thing, the Thing that drove your brother mad with desire? What spell would it work in Minas Tirith? Shall there be two cities of Minas Morgul, grinning at each other across a dead land filled with rottenness?"

Faramir closed his eyes against the image Frodo's passionate words conjured. "I would not have it so."

"Then what would you have me do?"

"I know not." He gazed at Frodo sadly. "Only I would not have you go to death or torment."

Just before the hobbits returned to their beds, he said, "I would gladly learn how this creeping Sméagol became possessed of the Thing of which we speak, and how he lost it, but I will not trouble you now. If ever beyond hope you return to the lands of the living and we re-tell our tales, sitting by a wall in the sun, laughing at old grief, you shall tell me then." But he had no hope that he would ever see them again, and he left them to go and stare at the water and ponder Frodo's admission that Boromir had gone mad with desire. What evils had he then done, this older brother Faramir loved, and how had he come by the peace and beauty with which he died?

_Would I had time to discover the riddles that come ever thicker,_ he now thought, eating bread and cheese without tasting it. He gathered his wits and gave Frodo some last advice about water and food and what they might find in Imlad Morgul, the valley of Living Death. And he gave them gifts of food and staves of _lebethron_ that he had ordered remade to their size and led them and Sméagol, blindfolded once more, down into the woods again.

He embraced the hobbits then, after the manner of his people, stooping, and placing his hands upon their shoulders, and kissing their foreheads. "Go with the goodwill of all good men!" he said gently, and they bowed to him. Then he turned and without looking back he left them and returned to Henneth Annûn to prepare for the dangerous journey back to Minas Tirith. And it seemed a long time, both to him and them, before he heard of them again.


	6. The Dawnless Day

**The Dawnless Day**

**Chapter 6**

Théoden came to Dunharrow as dusk fell the next day. The guards of the Ford gave the first news of it, crying with glad voices, "Théoden King! Théoden King! The King of the Mark returns!" One blew a long call on a horn that echoed in the valley and was answered by other horns, and torches that had been prepared were lit. The marshals and captains on the Firienfeld raised their horns to their lips and gave a great call, as if gathering their notes into one voice and sending it rolling and beating on the walls of stone. So the King of the Mark came back victorious out of the West to Dunharrow beneath the feet of the White Mountains, and Éowyn mounted her great grey steed Windfola and awaited him in the Hold.

As the company came onto the flat ground of the Firienfeld, she rode forward to meet them, wearing a helm, clad to the waist like a warrior, girded with a sword, her long braided hair gleaming in the twilight. And she saw with wonder that a figure like a child rode a pony just behind the king.

"Hail, Lord of the Mark!" she cried. "My heart is glad at your returning."

"And you, Éowyn," said Théoden with a smile, "is all well with you?"

"All is well," she answered, and she saw the small one give her a sharp glance and knew that her voice belied her, though she had set her face sternly. "Your lodging is prepared for you; for I have had full tidings of you and knew the hour of your coming."

"So Aragorn has come then," said Éomer, who rode near the king. "Is he still here?"

"No, he is gone," said Éowyn, turning away and looking at the mountains dark against the East and South.

"Whither did he go?" asked Éomer. Fresh in his mind was Aragorn's declaration of the road he would take, but he did not want to believe he had actually taken it.

"I do not know," she answered. _Where are you, Aragorn, you who will never return to the land of the living?_ "He is gone."

"You are grieved, daughter," said Théoden gently. "What happened? Tell me, did he speak of that road? Of the Paths of the Dead?"

"Yes, lord. And he has passed into the shadows from which none have returned. I could not dissuade him. He is gone." Her voice was bleak.

Éomer felt great loss. "Then our paths are sundered. He is lost. We must ride without him, and our hope dwindles." And it seemed to him as he looked on his sister's face, that her hope had dwindled into nothingness, and if that which was in the heart were to be revealed in outward form, she would be a frozen statue. It pained him like death to know he could do nothing for the sister he loved.

Éowyn led them to the king's pavilion and gave orders to others about tents and food and horse pickets, and she ordered especially a small tent for the child, or whatever it was, next to the king's lodging, and while she busied herself with women's work, men passed to and fro, going in to the king and taking counsel with him. Finally the call came for a meal, and she went in to serve the king, but he forestalled her.

"Nay, Éowyn, your place is with me and your brother, for you are great in the House of Eorl, and were we at Edoras, you would now be being served. It is to my shame that you waited on a feeble old man for so long instead of sitting in honour by my side, my sister-daughter as dear to me as daughter ever was to father. When I ride away to war, I will leave you to rule our people, and if I should come not back and my heir Éomer should come not back, you will take our place on the high seat at Meduseld, if indeed the Golden Hall remains unscathed, and you will be Queen of the Rohirrim."

"You do me honour, my lord," she said and bowed her head while her heart fluttered wildly, rebelliously in her breast like a bird imprisoned and the voice of Gríma Wormtongue echoed in her mind: _Aye, honour, but he really tells you that all you are fit for is a cage . . . a cage!_

"Honour?" Théoden lifted her head and looked into her eyes. "Éowyn, if my one desire could be granted, I would have you smile again. For even I may smile in these dark times." He took her hand and led her to a seat beside his stool at the small table in the pavilion, and food was brought to them and to Éomer on the king's right side and Dúnhere beside Éomer.

In silence they began to eat, and the king fell into deep thought, but Éomer murmured to one of the guards, "Bring the king's esquire."

_King's esquire? When did the king take on another esquire?_ Once Théodred had been his father's esquire, before he had grown to manhood and great deeds. _Perhaps it is the child he brought._

She looked toward the door as a small figure in a grey cloak pushed aside the embroidered curtain and entered. He was indeed the size of a child, but he was not a child; he seemed in his face to be but a few years younger than she herself. His face was smooth with a cheerful mouth but serious; his brown eyes were intelligent and anxious; his brown hair was the curliest she had ever seen; and his feet were bare and large and covered with hair. He wore no mail, but a small sword was strapped to his side, and she realized that his grey cloak and leaf-shaped brooch were identical in all but size to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli's. He looked at them soberly and went behind the king's stool, taking a plate of bread and serving him. Perhaps it was one such as he who had been with Gandalf, flying to Minas Tirith? His eyes were lonely.

Abruptly Théoden noticed him and smiled. "Come, Master Meriadoc! You shall not stand. You shall sit beside me, as long as I remain in my own lands, and lighten my heart with tales."

Éowyn moved to make room for him, smiling a comfort at him she did not feel. The meal was mostly silent, but at last Meriadoc, who seemed to be plucking up his courage to speak amidst the sombreness of the much larger people, inquired after the meaning of "the Paths of the Dead." Éomer and Théoden told him the ancient tales of the Haunted Mountain, but Théoden seemed to address most of his remarks to Éowyn, and he told her again the story of an old man's prophecy about a time to come when the way would not longer be shut, and he said, "Maybe at last the time foretold has come, and Aragorn may pass."

"But how shall a man discover whether that time be come or no, save by daring the Door?" said Éomer. "And that way I would not go though all the hosts of Mordor stood before me, and I were alone and had no other refuge."

Éowyn dropped her eyes and did not tell him that she had sought to go down that road with Aragorn, though maybe she would have turned back before the Door. But his next words were ones that she felt strongly:

"Alas that a fey mood should fall on a man so greathearted in this hour of need! Are there not evil things enough abroad without seeking them under the earth? War is at hand."

He would have gone on, but they heard the sound of a man's voice crying the name of Théoden, and the challenge of the guard, and soon an errand-rider of Gondor was brought before them.

_Gondor?_ thought Éowyn. _Why does Gondor come to us? They who hold back the forces of the Dark Land and thus protect us in the West, why send they to us?_ Once she had seen the great Captain-General of Gondor, Boromir son of Denethor, and she had never forgotten his noble and lordly bearing and face. This man was as like to him as if he were one of his kin, tall and grey-eyed and proud. In his hand he bore a single arrow, black-feathered and barbed with steel, but the point was painted red. And Éowyn remembered the stories of the long-ago friendship between the Rohirrim and the people of Gondor, how the tall, dark-haired, wise descendants of Númenor had ridden to battle beside the tall, golden-haired, fierce descendants of Eorl with this arrow as token between them.

The man sank on one knee and presented the arrow to Théoden. "Hail, Lord of the Rohirrim, friend of Gondor! Hirgon I am, errand rider of Denethor, who brings you this token of war. Gondor is in great need. Often the Rohirrim have aided us, but now the Lord Denethor asks for all your strength and all your speed, lest Gondor fall at last!"

"The Red Arrow!" said Théoden, holding it as one who receives a summons long expected yet dreadful when it comes. His hand trembled. "The Red Arrow has not been seen in the Mark in all my years! Has it indeed come to that? We are already at war, as you may have seen. Even now we are mustering for battle in the East."

"Indeed our case is desperate. My lord does not issue any command to you, he begs you only to remember old friendship and oaths long spoken, and for your own good to do all that you may. It is reported to us that many kings have ridden in from the east to the service of Mordor, and fear has fallen on all our coastlands, so that little help will come to us thence. Make haste! For it is before the walls of Minas Tirith that the doom of our time will be decided, and if the tide be not stemmed there, then it will flow over all the fair fields of Rohan, and even in this Hold among the hills there shall be no refuge."

"Dark tidings," said Théoden, "yet not all unguessed." His voice became firm, and he wrapped his fingers around the arrow as a weapon. "But say to Denethor that even if Rohan itself felt no peril, still we would come to his aid. But we have suffered much loss in our battles with Saruman the traitor, and we must still think of our frontier to the north and east. But we will come. The weapontake was set for the morrow. When all is ordered we will set out. Ten thousand spears I might have sent riding over the plain to the dismay of your foes. It will be less now, I fear, for I will not leave my strongholds unguarded. Yet six thousand at the least shall ride behind me. For say to Denethor that in this hour the King of the Mark himself will ride down to the land of Gondor, though maybe he will not ride back. A week it may be from tomorrow's morn ere you hear the cry of the Sons of Eorl coming from the north.

"A week!" said Hirgon, dismayed. "If it must be so, it must. But you are like to find only ruined walls in seven days from now, unless other help unlooked-for comes."

"I myself am new-come from battle and long journey, and I will now go to rest," Théoden said. "Tarry here this night. Then you shall look on the muster of Rohan and ride away the gladder for the sight, and the swifter for the rest." He stood and all with him. "Go now each to your rest and sleep well. And you, Master Meriadoc, I need no more tonight. But be ready to my call as soon as the Sun is risen."

"I will be ready," said Meriadoc, "even if you bid me ride with you on the Paths of the Dead."

And Éowyn and Éomer looked in wonder on him, but the king said, "Speak not words of omen! For there may be more roads than one that bear that name." He seemed to look sadly at the small fellow. "But I did not say that I would bid you ride with me on any road. Good night!

Meriadoc bowed and left the tent, and as he glanced back before closing the curtain, Éowyn saw that his face was set stubbornly and his eyes were glinting, the expression odd in a face that seemed made for merriment. Then she, too, went out with Éomer, and she asked her brother, "What is the king's esquire? He is manifestly not a child despite his size, but he is not a Man, and there is nothing Elvish about him, save his cloak and brooch, and he bears no more resemblance to a Dwarf than to a Man. And I was told that there was one like him with Gandalf."

Éomer laughed suddenly. "A wondrous little people they are. They are the Halflings of our legends, the Holbytlan."

"Holbytlan! So legends walk amongst us."

"Yes. They call themselves Hobbits in their own strange accents, and they live far to the North and West, so that if they were to climb a high tower, they would spy the Sea from their lands. Master Meriadoc's kinsman, who rode with Gandalf, is named Peregrin, and they call each other Merry and Pippin. The first I heard of them was on the Plains, when I met Aragorn and his two companions, who were pursuing the company of orcs my éored slew. These two had been captured by them, and very saddened were the three runners to hear that we left none alive. But we saw no child-like figures that day among the orcs. We heard no more of them until after the victory at Helm's Deep, at which time we rode to Isengard, for Gandalf would have words with the traitor of his order, Saruman. We came upon the great circle of Isengard and saw that it was a watery wasteland, the great arch destroyed, the huge walls rent apart. If the Great Sea had risen in wrath and fallen on the hills with storm, it could have worked no greater ruin, and indeed it seemed as if the Sea had filled it with water, out of which the tower of Orthanc loomed like a tall island."

"What could have causes such devastation to Saruman's power?"

Éomer smiled with a look of wonder. "More things out of legend who may not be swayed by the Wizard's silver tongue. But nearly the first things we saw were two little figures lying at their ease on a great rubble heap as if in the finest halls, and they smoked pipes even as Gandalf and Aragorn do. Meriadoc spoke to us with honour and good cheer, and they spoke easily of trivial things, sitting on the edge of the great ruin. And our uncle seemed to view them with wonder, amusement, and affection.

"So we passed on and came to Orthanc, and we saw even greater marvels, for there were great figures like trees who were yet like Men, as if Men had become trees or trees become Men, and they moved and spoke and were called Ents. It was they who had affected the destruction of Isengard, for Saruman had destroyed great parts of their home, the forest of Fangorn, which we do not enter. And at Orthanc we met one whom you know: the Wormtongue."

Éowyn shuddered, and he looked sharply at her.

"None of us remember him with pleasure. But there Gandalf broke the staff and power of Saruman, for since he has become Gandalf the White he has a greater power. No more have we to fear from that quarter. And I was rejoiced, remembering my uncle and Théodred my cousin and Háma, my faithful friend."

"Háma!" cried Éowyn.

"Did none bear you the news? He died before the Gate and was buried with honour under the shadow of the Hornburg."

"Alas," she murmured. "Than he there was no man of Rohan more faithful of heart to my uncle, save you alone."

"It is so, and he showed it with more obedience. But he died in honour and glory, and his death and Théodred's are avenged, for Saruman is turned to obscurity, a fate for him more bitter than a just death. And to him is Gríma bound by fear and hate, and that, too, is a great punishment. 'Often does hatred hurt itself,' Gandalf said, and it is true.

"So we rode from there, taking the hobbits, and in the night there was a disturbance of a nature I may not understand, though it somehow had to do with a round stone Gríma cast down from Orthanc and Peregrin played some mischief with. It was then that Gandalf flew on Shadowfax for Gondor and bore Peregrin with him, and Meriadoc was left in the care of Aragorn. When we came to the Hornburg again and Aragorn left with his Dúnedain, he asked that the Hobbit be given armour and gear, but there was none to fit him there. And Théoden promised that Meriadoc should ride with him and be his esquire. And the Hobbit drew from its black sheath his small bright blade and kissed the king's hand as if filled with love for him, and begged to lay his sword on the king's lap and be taken into his service. So he rides with the king as esquire of Rohan of the household of Meduseld, and I do not think he will be well-pleased to know that he may not ride with him to war."

"Why should he not?" Éowyn said suddenly and fiercely. "He is not a child to be protected, and he has been accepted into the king's service. He has as much cause to go to war as any who consider themselves fit."

Éomer looked at her a long moment in the torch light and knew she did not speak for Meriadoc alone. "So the king decrees," he said gently.

_And in this you choose to obey him, who did not before. Disobedience may come with a faithful heart. This I have learned from you, my brother._

"My sister," Éomer said at last, "you are weary with ennui and anxiety and grief as much as I with battle and journey, and I suspect that not the least of your griefs is the passing of Aragorn son of Arathorn. Is it not so?"

"It is so."

"Oh, why do you look to such as he? He is noble and good and valiant and beautiful as a king, but I think he cannot or will not give you what you desire, even if he had not passed into shadow to be gone from the earth."

She did not answer, and they were both silent a long while, and Éomer put an arm around his sister, and she leaned against his strength and closed her eyes. "Éomer," she said finally, "he said to say to you: beyond the shadows we may meet again."

"If any man may come forth from there, it is he, but I do not think any man may. Éowyn, do not seek the unattainable, but hope for what is possible! Go you to your bed, for you are weary." He kissed her forehead and turned her around and pushed her gently in the direction of her tent, and she did not see the tears that stood in his eyes.

But she went to her tent and made ready, for she had made up her mind. She would ride with the king, welcome or no, and she would face battle and then the quietness and peace of death. All was quiet in the camp when she came out of her tent and crossed the Path in search of Elfhelm. He was a marshal of an éored, a tall, slender young man with calm blue eyes and long pale hair. One of his fathers of old had been an Elf-friend, and he alone among the Men of Rohan wore something of Elvish craft, a silver helm set with green beryls of wondrous beauty. He was a good friend to her of old, and he loved her. She was woman enough to know it and to use it. He was before his tent as if unable to sleep, and he sprang to his feet as she approached.

"My lady Éowyn!"

"Quiet if you value our friendship. I have a request to make of you, Elfhelm."

"May I grant it to you, lady, if it be anything in my power save remaining here while the King rides to war!"

"You understand me, my friend, for I would no more remain behind than you. On the morrow when you ride, if an unfamiliar Rider called Dernhelm rides with your éored, take no note of him nor of any burden he may bear with him."

"Nay, lady!" he cried, too late.

"Elfhelm, I could command you, but I ask you, for your love and friendship and devotion to the King. Do not condemn me to that very thing you would dread."

And he could not refuse her, and he bowed his head in agreement and sorrow. She touched his shoulder.

"My death shall not be upon your head, friend, for I ride to it with gladness."

When he looked up again, she was gone, and he wept. But Éowyn went and slept in more peace than she had in many days.

She awoke before the dawn and dressed herself as before and went out to greet the sunrise, but it never came. Heavy darkness and stillness lay over everything. A great black cloud had come from Mordor, eating up the stars in the night, its furthest groping fingers of great gloom still crawling westward. Overhead there hung a heavy roof, sombre and featureless, and light seemed rather to be failing than growing. War had already begun.

Éowyn made some last preparations and then went to the king and broke fast with him and Éomer, and it seemed to her kin that her face was made of stone. But this darkness chilled the hearts of many. Others soon joined them, including Meriadoc, and the king said, "So we come to it in the end: the great battle of our time, in which many things shall pass away. But at least there is no longer need for hiding. We will ride the straight way and the open road and with all our speed. The muster must begin at once, and wait for none that tarry. Call the heralds, Éomer. Let the Riders be marshalled!"

Éomer went out, and presently the trumpets rang in the Hold and were answered by many others from below. The Riders began to gather.

The king turned to his esquire. "I am going to war, Master Meriadoc. In a little while I shall take the road. I release you from my service, but not from my friendship. You shall abide here, and if you will, you shall serve the Lady Éowyn, who will govern the folk in my stead."

_You know not that you do us both a disservice._

"But, but, lord," stammered the hobbit, dismay in his eyes and voice, "I offered you my sword. I do not want to be parted from you like this, Théoden King. And as all my friends have gone to the battle, I should be ashamed to stay behind."

_We are akin, my small and valiant Holbytla. We are both forced to be useless._

"But we ride on horses tall and swift," said Théoden; "and great though your heart be, you cannot ride such beasts."

"Then tie me onto the back of one!" Meriadoc insisted. "Or let me hang on a stirrup or something. It is a long way to run; but run I shall, if I cannot ride, even if I wear my feet off and arrive weeks too late." He thrust his chin out stubbornly and glared.

Théoden smiled. "Rather than that I would bear you with me on Snowmane. But at the least you shall ride with me to Edoras and look on Meduseld, for that way I shall go. So far Stybba can bear you: the great race will not begin till we reach the plains."

Éowyn stood, wishing she could put heart into the hobbit but having none to give. "Come now, Meriadoc! I will show you the gear I have prepared for you." She led him to a booth among the lodges of the king's guard; and there an armourer bought out to her a small helm, and a round shield, and other gear. "No mail have we to fit," said Éowyn, "nor any time for the forging of such a hauberk; but there is also a stout jerkin of leather, a belt, and a knife. A sword you have." She showed him the shield, which bore the device of the white horse. "Take all these things, and bear them to good fortune! Fare well now, Master Meriadoc!" She looked him in the eyes, grey drilling into brown. "Yet maybe we shall meet again, you and I."

So it was that amid a gathering gloom the King of the Mark made ready to lead all his Riders on the eastward road. Hearts were heavy and many quailed in the shadow. But they were a stern people, loyal to their lord, and little weeping or murmuring was heard, even in the camp in the Hold where the exiles from Edoras were housed, women and children and old men. Doom hung over them, but they faced it silently.

Éowyn returned to the king and took her leave of him. He saw that there was no joy on her face, no hope of his return, and his heart wept for the woman that she might have been, had he not fallen so easy prey to Gríma Wormtongue. He had no words to leave her with, nothing he could say to comfort her, and for a moment he felt as impotent as the old man who had sat in the Golden Hall day after day and done nothing. But resolve and strength and courage were in him. He would ride to battle for his people and for Gondor, but if he must die he would do it for Éowyn, his sister-daughter, knowing he had spent his last strength in protecting her precious life. He embraced and kissed her and said, "I would not have you grieve for those whose time has come, Éowyn. I go in strength to my victory!" But as she went out of his pavilion, he was haunted by the expression in her eyes. _No father should have to see his child dead,_ he thought, and he did not mean only Théodred.

Éomer met his sister outside the king's tent, and he, too, had no words for her. He embraced her for a long moment and walked away, saying only, "I will see you again when we return in victory to Rohan!"

_If that day comes, will you live to see it? Will you want to, Éomer, when you learn that I am not here?_

In the darkness that did not lift she walked to her tent and outfitted herself completely as a Rider, hiding feminine form beneath leather and mail, binding up hair to a more masculine length, concealing well-known face behind a helm. She drew her sword from its sheath, the sword given her by the king, the sword of Éothain her ancestor who rode with Eorl the Young, and she kissed it and strapped it to her side. She took up a shield in one hand, round and green with the white horse running in wild beauty, and in the other a tall ash spear. And almost she blessed the darkness that hid Windfola and her own riding carriage from the knowledgeable eyes of those who knew her.

Mounting, she rode down the path to the dale and joined Elfhelm's éored, which was near the end of the lines of companies of Riders awaiting their King. Elfhelm gave her a nod as she dismounted and took her position. He had earlier given orders that the Rider known as Dernhelm and anything with him should be disregarded, and his men, curious but loyal, took no notice as the slight stranger joined them.

Two swift hours passed, and now the king sat before them upon his white horse, glimmering in the half-light. Proud and tall he seemed, though the hair that flowed beneath his high helm was like snow, and many marvelled at him and took heart to see him unbent and unafraid. A single trumpet sounded, and then silently the host of the Mark began to move. The king rode with Éomer on his right and Meriadoc on his pony behind them. They passed down the long ranks of waiting men with stern and unmoved faces, but though Éowyn lowered her face a little as her uncle and brother rode by, she looked up at the hobbit as he passed. He returned her look without an expression of recognition, but he shivered, and she knew he read in her eyes the soul of one without hope who goes in search of death.

And so without horn or harp or music of men's voices the great ride into the East began. Forth rode the king, fear behind him, fate before him. Fealty kept he; oaths he had taken, all fulfilled them.

It was in deepening gloom that the host of Rohan came to Edoras, although it was then but noon by the hour. A short halt was called to welcome some three score of Riders that came late to the weapontake and to take some nourishment, and Éowyn, though taking care not to be seen by the king, heard his farewell to his esquire and the hobbit's last plea.

"But why, lord, did you receive me as swordthain, if not to stay by your side? And I would not have it said of me in song only that I was always left behind!"

"I received you for your safe-keeping," answered Théoden. "None of my Riders can bear you as a burden. I will say no more."

_None of your men can, but I am smaller than they and ride a mighty steed who will easily take a woman and a Halfling._

As Meriadoc made his obeisance to the king and moved away unhappily, Éowyn came behind him and whispered in his ear, _"Where will wants not, a way opens,_ so we say, and so I have found myself." He looked up into her eyes, and she thought he recognized her. "You wish to go whither the Lord of the Mark goes: I see it in your face."

"I do," said Meriadoc.

"Then you shall go with me. I will bear you before me, under my cloak until we are far afield, and this darkness is yet darker. Such good will should not be denied. Say no more to any man, but come!"

"Thank you indeed! Thank you, sir, though I do not know your name."

"Do you not?" she said in surprise. "Then call me Dernhelm. Come!"

She lifted him onto Windfola and mounted behind him, and together they made less a weight than one such as Éomer. On into the shadow they rode in Elfhelm's éored all that day and the next, and as they rode rumour came of war in the North, of foes assailing their east-borders.

"Ride on! Ride on!" cried Éomer. "Too late now to turn aside. Haste now we need! Ride on!"

So King Théoden departed from his own realm, and mile by mile the long road wound away. All the lands were grey and still; and ever the shadow deepened before them, and hope waned in every heart, save in the heart that had no hope.

* * *

Faramir and his men sat at their camp on Cair Andros, watching the growing cloud with unease. The setting sun should have been casting its last golden rays across the Great River, but from Mordor a massive cloud had come creeping, blotting out the Sun, flowing west to swallow up the newly-lighted stars. The Enemy was making his move, and the Rangers were in fear. They moved about, unable to rest, but Faramir bid them sleep. War was almost upon them, and few then would be able to sleep. He threw himself down and fell into the sleep of one who has trained himself to take rest under any circumstances.

It was very early when he rose again, and he knew the Sun would not rise that day. Maybe it would never rise again, if the Enemy won out. _What does he know of the cursed Thing Frodo carries? Does he know that among all the peoples of Middle-earth the one who withholds it from him is small and inconsequential? Can he imagine what a hobbit would dare do with it? I think not, for Evil cannot comprehend the imagination of Good. He will attack Men, Elves, and Dwarves, and the hope is that he will never see the little people on his doorstep._ He shuddered, looking East. _If they get there._

He roused his men and gave swift orders. The majority he ordered to cross from the island to the west and go south as quickly as possible to strengthen the garrison at Osgiliath. He did not think Osgiliath could be held forever against the full strength of the Enemy, but he wanted to protect Minas Tirith as long as possible. Three only he reserved to go with him: Anborn, Mablung, and Damrod. They crossed to the west, took horses kept on the hither bank, and rode with all speed for Minas Tirith. As long as they could they kept under cover, but all too soon the land opened up, the River to their left and the eaves of the Druadan Forest far to their right. But they met no foes for many hours. It was dark and dim all day. From the sunless dawn until evening the heavy shadow deepened. Far above a great cloud streamed slowly westward from the Black Land, devouring light, borne upon a wind of war; but below the air was still and breathless, stifling, and the horses could not go at full speed. At last, at the hour of sunset, the Pelennor Fields lay before them, and away against the Ered Nimrais was Minas Tirith. They spurred their weary horses on, themselves exhausted from battle, journey, and all too little sleep.

Suddenly as they approached the city, from above came a cry that froze the bones, pierced the heart with a poisonous despair. The horses reared and screamed, and the men cowered away from the five birdlike forms that swooped from above, like shadows of untimely night, horrible as carrion-fowl yet greater than eagles. They dived near the city, then turned to the fields, wheeling and swooping. The horses, driven mad, flung themselves away, and Anborn, Mablung, and Damrod were thrown. Faramir found himself riding alone on a maddened beast and turned to see his three men running wildly for the Gate he was almost upon. Without a thought, though fear flowed through him, he wheeled, forced his horse away from refuge, back toward Anborn. As he reached a hand down to pull up the terrified man, a shadow brushed his cheek, and he looked up to see one of the foul hell-hawks stooping on him. He had not thought to die like this, with black fear coursing through every vein in place of red blood. Madness was all around him. Then, on the periphery of his vision, he caught a flash of white and silver. The thing stooping down lower over him became aware of it, gave a great cry, and wheeled towards it. It came from the North, a small star against the darkness, and a pale light was spread about it, and the heavy shadows gave way before it. He heard a great voice calling, saw a shaft of white light stab upwards from it, and the winged thing gave a long wailing cry and swerved away; and with that the four others wavered, and then rising in swift spirals, they passed away eastward, vanishing into the lowering cloud above. Fear seeped away like water through sand, and it seemed somehow less dark.

Faramir pulled up his horse and turned toward the North, passing an icy, shaking hand across his forehead. Now he saw that the shining star was in fact a rider in pure white robes on a glistening silver horse, holding a tall white staff, shining no longer, pale in the twilight as if his fire was spent or veiled. They met, and Faramir realized this was one he had been told was dead.

"Mithrandir!" he cried—or tried to cry, but it came out as a whisper from his dry throat. Never had he felt more weary.

"Faramir," the White Rider said. "Here are your men. Let us go into the city."

Slowly they rode, keeping pace with the shaking men on foot and passing at last through the Gate, riding up through the winding streets to the citadel amid glad cries of "Faramir!" and "Mithrandir!" Faramir was too weary to acknowledge the love of his people, but as he dismounted he heard amid the shouts a strange voice and accent near him. He turned and looked down and saw something that astonished him almost as much as Mithrandir had. It was a small, familiar form, curly-haired and large-footed, with a mouth that seemed made for laughter and brown eyes that gazed at him soberly and wonderingly, and it was clad in black and silver, with a high-crowned helm with small raven-wings on either side, set with a silver star in the centre of the circlet, and a short surcoat of black broidered on the breast in silver with the token of the Tree. And over all was a grey cloak and green and silver brooch the like of which he had seen before.

"Whence came you?" he said. "A halfling, and in the livery of the Tower! Whence . . . !"

But Mithrandir stepped to his side. "He came with me from the land of the Halflings. But let us not tarry here. There is much to say and do, and you are weary. He shall come with us. Come, Pippin, follow us!"

_Pippin? Was that not the name Frodo spoke of one of his kinsmen with him? The other was Merry. Where then is he, and why are these folk so scattered across the land?_

So at length they came to the private chamber of the Lord of the City. There deep seats were set about a brazier of charcoal, and Faramir, after greeting his father, sank into one on Denethor's left gratefully. Mithrandir sat to the Steward's right, and the halfling stood behind the Steward's chair, and Faramir saw that he listened eagerly to all that was said. When he had taken some bread and wine, Faramir reported to his father all he knew of the Enemy's movements and the victory in Ithilien, but suddenly it seemed that his actions had been useless and petty, small things of border-war, shorn of their renown. But then he looked at the hobbit again. "But now we come to stranger matters. For this is not the first halfling that I have seen walking out of northern legends into the Southlands."

Mithrandir sat up straight and gripped the arms of his chair. Pippin opened his mouth but glanced at Mithrandir and shut it again. Denethor examined them both with an air of knowing without being told, as indeed he often did. But all were silent, and Faramir told the full tale of his meeting with Frodo and Samwise. He knew very well that his father would be displeased with his actions, and on his journey from Henneth Annûn he had debated with himself whether or not to even to mention to him Frodo's burden, but the Steward, too, should hear the tidings of Isildur's Bane and know the answers to the mystery. As he told his tale he saw that Mithrandir's hands trembled and knew he was in fear for the quest Frodo was on. And he knew that his guesses were right and that this quest was of greater importance to Middle-earth than even the standing or falling of Gondor. Boromir would not have been able to see this, maybe, and he knew Denethor did not.

"I hope that I have not done ill?" he finished, looking at his father, wishing he could communicate the dread import of Frodo's quest.

"Ill?" cried Denethor, and his eyes flashed suddenly. "Why do you ask? Your bearing is lowly in my presence, yet it is long now since you turned from your own way at my counsel. See, you have spoken skilfully, as ever; but I, have I not seen your eye fixed on Mithrandir, seeking whether you said well or too much? He has long had your heart in his keeping. Alas, alas for Boromir!"

_Never can I do what you require, my father! Boromir's greatest mistakes were always more acceptable than my successes._ He forced himself to speak quietly. "If what I have done displeases you, my father, I wish I had known your counsel before the burden of so weighty a judgment was thrust on me."

"Would that have availed to change your judgment?" said Denethor. "You would still have done so, I deem. I know you well." His voice was so bitter Pippin stared up at him, wide-eyed. "Ever your desire is to appear lordly and generous as a king of old, gracious, gentle." Ever it had rankled with him that Faramir had shown more of the air of Númenor than Boromir. Faramir's close resemblance to his mother, the fair Finduilas of Dol Amroth, stung every time Denethor looked at him, reminding him of what he could not bear to be reminded. He snapped, "That may well befit one of high race, if he sits in power and peace. But in desperate hours gentleness may be repaid with death."

_This I expected._ "So be it," said Faramir. But even that was not good enough.

"So be it!" cried Denethor. "But not with your death only, Lord Faramir: with the death also of your father, and of all your people, whom it is your part to protect now that Boromir is gone."

Faramir heard the unspoken words and spoke them. In Ithilien it was easy to put the matter aside, but here, in his father's presence, it was not, and a black shadow seemed to be on him. "Do you wish then that our places had been exchanged?"

"Yes, I wish that indeed," said Denethor. "For Boromir was loyal to me and no wizard's pupil. He would have remembered his father's need, and would not have squandered what fortune gave."

The words, known but never spoken, struck Faramir with the force and pain of an orc bolt and seeped in quietly with icy poison. For the first time in a long time his restraint before his father gave way. "I would ask you, my father, to remember why it was that I, not he, was in Ithilien. On one occasion at least your counsel has prevailed, not long ago. It was the Lord of the City that gave the errand to him." _Would I had gone on that quest and died before coming to this!_

Denethor snapped, "Stir not the bitterness in the cup that I mixed for myself. Have I not tasted it now many nights upon my tongue, foreboding that worse yet lay in the dregs? As now indeed I find. Would it were not so! Would that this thing had come to me!"

_How can you understand that I have saved you from your destruction, my father whom I love and who loves me not?_

"Comfort yourself!" said Mithrandir. "In no case would Boromir have brought it to you. He would have stretched out his hand to this thing, and taking it he would have fallen. He would have kept it for his own, and when he returned you would not have known your son."

_My heart tells me this is so, and for this reason I am glad he perished before he could come to it. But my father will not accept it, will not believe the terrible power this thing has. Alas that Boromir the brave had not the wisdom to flee temptation!_

Mithrandir and Denethor stared at each other, deep dislike in the Steward's eyes, something inscrutable in the Wizard's; it seemed as if their glances were like blades from eye to eye, flickering as they fenced. They debated about the burden Frodo carried, the weapon Faramir had rejected, and he closed his eyes wearily. _The thing is gone where we cannot find it and would not want to search it out. Where is my father's wisdom in this? He thinks he would save it for the uttermost end of need, but that would be the worst time to use it, when its power for destruction would be greatest. It would not make us strong, save in evil; it would not make us brave, for courage is born of virtue. Did it burn Boromir's mind away, as Mithrandir describes? My strong, valiant brother, defeated at the last by the thing a hobbit carries with virtue and much pain._

Finally Denethor shrugged. "It has gone into Shadow, and only time will show what doom awaits it, and us. The time will not be long. In what is left, let all who fight the Enemy in their fashion be one, and keep hope while they may, and after hope still the hardihood to die free." He turned to Faramir. "What think you of the garrison at Osgiliath?"

"It is not strong. I have sent the company of Ithilien to strengthen it."

"Not enough, I deem. It is there that the first blow will fall. They will have need of some stout captain there." He eyed Faramir sardonically.

"There and elsewhere in many places," said Faramir, and sighed. "Alas, for my brother, whom I too loved!" He rose. "May I have your leave, father?" Sudden dizziness from weariness came over him, and he swayed and leaned upon his father's chair. He almost laughed at the cruel irony.

"You are weary, I see. You have ridden fast and far, and under shadows of evil in the air, I am told."

"Let us not speak of that!" said Faramir.

"Then we will not. Go now and rest as you may. Tomorrow's need will be sterner."

Faramir bowed to him and to Mithrandir and nodded at the hobbit, who seemed surprised to be remembered and gave him a small smile as he left. The smile stayed with him as he went to his chambers and somehow brought him some measure of comfort, though his last thought before he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep was of his father's answer to his question: _'Do you wish then that our places had been exchanged?' 'Yes, I wish that indeed.'_

He was summoned early in the morning for a Council, feeling as though he could have slept days. Mithrandir was there, as was Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth. He was Faramir's uncle, and they had much affection for each other, being very like in mind and wisdom and virtue. There were also Dervorin of Ringló Vale, tall Duinhir of Morthond, Golasgil of Anfalas, Hirluin the Fair of the Green Hills from Pinnath Gelin, to whom Faramir and his Rangers felt much akin, and other captains of the men of Gondor. All the captains judged that because of the threat in the South their force was too weak to make any stroke of war on their own part, for it seemed that the Riders of Rohan would not come, and they must man the walls and wait. But the Lord of the City was master of his Council, and he was in no mood to bow to others.

"We should not lightly abandon the outer defences made with so great a labour. And the Enemy must pay dearly for the crossing of the River. That he cannot do elsewhere, in force to assail the City. It is at Osgiliath that he will put all his weight, as before when Boromir denied him the passage."

Faramir ignored the injustice of this, though he had been there as well, fighting alongside his brother, stroke for stroke. What Denethor was proposing was a simple waste of men, though it sounded wise for a moment. "That was but a trial. Today we may make the Enemy pay ten times our loss at the passage and yet rue the exchange. For he can afford to lose a host better than we to lose a company."

"Much must be risked in war," said Denethor. "I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought—not if there is a captain here who has still the courage to do his lord's will." And though there were many captains there and all were silent and made no answer, he looked at Faramir as he spoke.

_He sends me to my death. Is it in payment for Boromir's death? Then gladly will I go._ "I do not oppose your will, sire. Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead—if you command it."

"I do so," said Denethor.

Faramir rose and bowed. "Then farewell. But if I should return, think better of me!"

"That depends upon the manner of your return," said Denethor, and it seemed to all present that Faramir was deadly pale and tears stood in his eyes as he turned and went out of the hall.

He stood a moment before the White Tree before he rode out. _Perhaps this will be the end of all our times and no king will come and the Tree will never flower again. Yet I had always desired to see the days of the King._ He bowed his head and left the Citadel.

Now he was in the uniform of a Captain of Minas Tirith: mail of black metal, a black surcoat broidered with the White Tree, a silver helm set with a white gem, and black gauntlets. He gathered such strength of men as were willing to go or could be spared, and the people gazed sadly after him, quiet as he rode through the streets, a look on his face such as they had never seen on their Lord Faramir, whom they loved. "They give him no rest," some murmured. "The Lord drives his son too hard, and now he must do the duty of two, of himself and for the one who will not return." And ever men looked northward, asking: "Where are the Riders of Rohan?"

But Mithrandir met him at the Gate and stopped his horse, looking up into his face with keen eyes. "Do not throw away your life rashly or in bitterness," he said. "You will be needed here, for other things than war. Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end. Farewell!"

Faramir only looked at him and rode out though the Gate, his men behind him. _Do not give me words of empty comfort, Mithrandir. My father loved my mother and she died early, so he hates me for the reminder. Osgiliath will fall and the fords of Anduin will be taken, but maybe we will be able to hold them off a while and take a great toll._

The company from Gondor reached Osgiliath in good time, and Faramir took over the organization of the defenses. There were far too few men. Already they could see the great host of Mordor far away across the River, more men and orcs than any of the men of Gondor had ever seen in one place. The whole strength of Gondor could not hope to defeat it. By afternoon the Mordor host had reached the eastern banks of the Anduin. The foreguard was composed of the great regiments of Haradrim, cruel and tall, and behind them the ranks of orcs bred in Mordor. Hope failed before the sight, and fear began to grow. Then the greatest enemy in the host was revealed: its leader, a great Black Captain riding one of the fell winged beasts, a Nazgûl. Fear passed before him over the River, and only Faramir's orders and encouragements could keep the men at their places. Not for nothing was it said that he could govern men and beast. Never had he felt fear like this that assailed from without and within and ran in the veins like fire, but he could also govern himself and keep his hand steady while his heart screamed at him to flee.

The assault began that night. In secret the enemy had been building boats and barges in eastern Osgiliath, and now orcs swarmed in like beetles under the cover of Haradrim arrows. There was fighting on every hand, but ever the Black Captain flew over and defeated the men of Gondor without a sword stroke. They fled before even the rumour of his coming. By afternoon of the next day, though there was little light it was clear that Osgiliath was falling. Faramir sounded the retreat, and the men pulled out of the city to the Rammas, the great wall that protected the Pelennor Fields. That at least was strong. They had destroyed many orcs and Southrons, but they were ten times outnumbered, and the enemy had paid less dearly for Osgiliath than they had hoped.

A silence fell, for they had not been pursued to the wall. Who knew what new devilry the all too quiet enemy ranks were planning? But at least there was rest for a while. Faramir sent a rider to Minas Tirith with the news. Osgiliath had fallen. The fords and bridges were the enemy's. It was only time before Minas Tirith would be assailed. They had to hold it off as long as possible. Faramir rallied the men before the Causeway Forts, setting watches, letting the men rest but giving orders for alertness at all times. Arrows flew constantly from both sides.

Then came a most welcome sight. Mithrandir came across the fields, riding his swift horse with his white robes flowing out behind him. He, at least, could withstand the Nazgûl.

The onslaught began again, but this time the men held off the enemy from the wall, and Mithrandir kept the Nazgûl at bay. All that night they fought with a little less fear, though with waning strength. In the morning, though, came a deafening sound that spelled their defeat: a roaring and crashing and booming. The enemy was blasting breaches in the wall. For long hours the men of Gondor vainly protected the breaches, but Faramir knew they must flee. He gathered the wounded in waggons as the Causeway Forts fell around him and sent them ahead with swift horses to the city, Mithrandir with them as escort and protection. Other groups of men he sent while still others fought, until at last the Rangers of Ithilien only protected the fleeing men. All up and down the walls breaches were made, the enemy pouring in, unhindered, and at last Faramir sounded the last retreat on his horn. The Rangers fled swiftly, but Faramir called them together until they marched together in rank and file, Faramir and a few others on horseback as a rearguard. The enemy was behind them, but many of the Southrons rode horses, and now these horsemen poured through the breaches and gave pursuit. Orcs followed with flaming brands, and all behind them was a flowing torrent overtaking the retreat. And with a piercing cry out of the dim sky fell the winged shadows, the Nazgûl stooping to the kill. The retreat became a rout. Brave Rangers broke away, flying wild and witless here and there, flinging away their weapons, crying out in fear, falling on the ground. Faramir's horse became wild under him. And then a trumpet rang from the Citadel, and at last men began riding from the City to the defence.

Foremost on the field rode the swan-knights of Dol Amroth with their Prince and his blue banner at their head. "Amroth for Gondor!" they cried. "Amroth for Faramir!" Like thunder they broke upon the enemy on either flank of the retreat; but one rider outran them all, swift as the wind in the grass: Shadowfax bore him, shining unveiled once more, a light starting from his upraised hand. The Nazgûl screeched and swept away, for their Captain was not yet come to challenge the white fire of his foe. The hosts of Morgul intent on their prey, taken at unawares in wild career, broke, scattering like sparks in a gale. The out-companies with a great cheer turned and smote their pursuers. Hunters became the hunted. The retreat became an onslaught. Faramir met Imrahil in the field and they rode together, swords at work. A mounted champion of Harad, clad in red and gold with flashing dark eyes and curved red blade, came on, and Faramir's sword met his, sparks flying. Stroke after stroke they gave and neither could get the upper hand. Imrahil was swept away in the mêlée.

Then for Faramir time seemed to slow, and the sound of battle disappeared. The man of Harad's sword was upraised for a mighty stroke, but near his horse another Southron raised his bow. Faramir watched the bolt fly slowly through the air. _Boromir died by many arrows. One will be enough for me._ With the thud of finality, the bolt hit him, and even as he was driven backward off his horse, it did not hurt. Slowly he fell and felt himself hit the ground. He saw above him the Southron, with painful slowness, wheel his horse and ride toward him, bending from the saddle, his red sword ready. A mist obscured him. Darkness took the world.


	7. Battle and Pyre

**Battle and Pyre**

**Chapter 7**

The host of Rohan had ridden night and day nearly five days. There had been short halts and rests, but the Riders had mostly slept in their saddles. The continued darkness wore on the spirits, as did weariness and aching muscles, and active men itched for work to put their swords and spears to. Éowyn had much to keep her mind busy, but she knew small Meriadoc was bored, oppressed, and frightened. Occasionally she quietly asked him questions about his home, his people, and his journey, and though she knew he was keeping back as much as he told, she learned much from him. Gradually the old Halfling legends were given faces and history. She learned about Gandalf from a hobbit's point of view, about his fireworks and his reputation as a trouble-maker in the peaceful Shire. She also learned a wondrous tale of a great Dwarf mine, a demon of fire, and the loss of Gandalf, and also of his later reappearance as Gandalf the White. The tale posed as many questions as it answered. What happened to Gandalf after he fell? She also asked carefully after Aragorn, whom Meriadoc continually called "Strider." She learned about his wood lore and his valour, his Elvish friends in Rivendell and his great age. She learned to her astonishment that he was older than her uncle, for he looked scarce ten years older than Éomer.

On the whole, however, it was a silent ride. She spoke to no one but Meriadoc, and he still thought she was a young male Rider named Dernhelm. Elfhelm's éored was one of the first in the long line of éoreds, and she was able to keep her eyes on the king as he rode ahead.

On the fourth night, there was a long halt near the Druadan Forest. They were less than a day's ride from the out-walls of Minas Tirith that encircled the townlands, and the host was in peril. A host of the enemy was encamped upon the road, and some strength of men was already thrusting along the road and was no more than three leagues away. Orcs were roving in the hills and woods along the roadside. The king and Éomer held council in the watches of the night. Elfhelm brought word to the éored that they were to set themselves in readiness for a sudden move. Meriadoc had disappeared for a little while, but soon he came creeping back, and the order came to remount. The host left the road and began following paths over the thickly wooded ridges behind their camp and by afternoon had gone down into a hidden valley. A great gap in the hills revealed a long-deserted road, hidden under the leaves of uncounted years; its thickets offered to the Riders their last hope of cover before they went into open battle. Éowyn had seen that the king followed a strange, squat shape of a man who reminded her somehow of the Púkel-men of Dunharrow. She realized he must be one of the Woses, a people of as much legend as the halflings. It was Meriadoc, of all people, who explained the matter to her. He admitted in a whisper as they rode that he had crept close to the king as he held council in the night and had heard him speaking to the Wild Man.

"They hate the orcs and know your people do as well. This fellow agreed to lead us by secret ways so we could go safely to battle. They want to live in peace . . . like we do," he finished quietly, and sighed.

The Rohirrim followed the road all that day and into the night, and soon they could see straight ahead a red glow under the black sky and the sides of the great mountain loomed against it. The king rode in the midst of the leading company, his household about him. Elfhelm's éored came next. As they rode on, Éowyn left her place and gradually but steadily moved forward until at last she was riding just in rear of the king's guard. Meriadoc glanced up at her, puzzled, but she said nothing. This near to the king she didn't want her voice to be heard, and she kept behind him and Éomer so they would not recognize Windfola. She had not come on this weary journey simply to fight; she had come to fight alongside the king and her brother, to give her empty life for them.

Riders had gone ahead to scout out the land and soon came back with news that Éowyn and Meriadoc could hear clearly as the whole host pulled to a stop.

"The City is all set about with flames," said one, "and the field is full of foes, but there are few left upon the out-wall, and they are heedless, busy in destruction."

"The air brings messages," said another. "Already the wind is turning. There comes a breath out of the South; there is a sea-tang in it, faint though it be. The morning will bring new things. Above the reek it will be dawn when you pass the wall."

Visible relief passed through all those in hearing. Éowyn felt Meriadoc straighten behind her. Théoden spoke now in a clear voice so that many of his men could hear him, and his words sent a thrill through all who heard him and lifted their heads and put a grey light in their eyes.

"Now is the hour come, Riders of the Mark, sons of Eorl! Foes and fire are before you, and your homes far behind. Yet, though you fight upon an alien field, the glory that you reap shall be your own forever. Oaths ye have taken: now fulfill them all, to lord and land and league of friendship!"

Men clashed spear upon shield.

"Éomer, my son! You lead the first éored, and it shall go behind the king's banner in the centre. Elfhelm, lead your company to the right when we pass the wall. And Grimbold shall lead his towards the left. Let the other companies behind follow those three that lead, as they have chance. Strike wherever the enemy gathers. Other plans we cannot make, for we know not yet how things stand upon the field. Forth now, and fear no darkness!"

Éowyn was almost sure the king's keen glance had swept over her as he gave his orders, but he made no indication that he had seen anything unusual in one of many Riders. The leading company rode off as swiftly as they could, for it was still deep dark. They soon reached the out-walls, which had been completely destroyed, and wild cries broke out; there was some clash of arms, but it was brief. Éowyn used her spear, butt-end and point, on two orcs while Meriadoc swashed wildly but ineffectively behind her with his little sword, but the orcs busy about the walls were few, and they were quickly slain or driven off. The first groups of men passed through the ruined gates, and the king pulled up, Éomer's éored around him, Elfhelm's passing to the right, and Grimbold's to the left. Éowyn stayed with her brother's éored now, and as Elfhelm passed he touched his spear to his helm and bowed his head to her.

Great fires blazed all around the city and across the fields, but they were the only lights and little could be seen on the dark plain. Now silently the host of Rohan moved forward into the field of Gondor, pouring in slowly but steadily, like the rising tide through breaches in a dike that men have thought secure. After a while the king led his men away somewhat eastward to come between the fires of the siege and the outer fields. Still they were unchallenged, and still Théoden gave no signal. At last he halted once again. The City was now very near. A smell of burning was in the air and a very shadow of death. The horses were uneasy. But the king sat upon Snowmane, motionless, gazing upon the agony of Minas Tirith, as if stricken suddenly by anguish, or by dread. He seemed to shrink down, cowed by age. Despite the terrible view of the city, Éowyn gazed at the king with yet more horror. He looked again as he had looked before Gandalf came, as if a terrible weight of years was upon him and he had not the strength to sit up straight. He could not quail, bow his head, turn, slink away to hide in the hills!

Almost she spurred her horse forward and betrayed herself, but suddenly there was a change in the air. Wind flowed past her for the first time in days. Light was glimmering. Far, far away, in the South the clouds could be dimly seen as remote grey shapes, rolling up, drifting: morning lay behind them. At the same moment there was a great flash near the City and rolling over the fields a great _boom._ At that sound, Éowyn saw the bent shape of the king spring suddenly erect. Tall and proud he seemed again; and rising in his stirrups he cried in a loud voice, more clear than any there had ever heard a mortal man achieve before:

_Arise, arise Riders of Théoden!_

_Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter!_

_Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,_

_a sword day, a red day, ere the sun rises!_

_Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!_

Spine tingling, Éowyn felt now more a Rider of Rohan than ever before as she saw her uncle seize a great horn and blow such a blast upon it that it burst asunder. All around her all the other horns in the host were lifted up in music that swelled the heart of the Rohirrim. Even Meriadoc behind her gave a shiver.

Suddenly the king cried to Snowmane and the horse sprang away. After him thundered the knights of his house and Éowyn among them, but he was ever before them. Éomer rode there, never knowing his sister was so near, and the front of the first éored roared like a breaker foaming to the shore, but Théoden could not be overtaken. Fey he seemed, or the battle-fury of his fathers ran like new fire in his veins, and he was borne up on Snowmane like a god of old, even as Oromë the Great in the battle of the Valar when the world was young. His golden shield was uncovered, and lo! it shone like an image of the Sun, and the grass flamed into green about the white feet of his steed. For morning came, morning and a wind from the sea; and the darkness was removed, and with the wind the same battle-fury took the shieldmaiden of Rohan, the niece of Théoden, whose fathers were also her fathers. And the hosts of Mordor wailed, and terror took them, and they fled, and died, and the hoofs of wrath rode over them. And then all the host of Rohan burst into song, and they sang as they slew, for the joy of battle was on them, and the sound of their singing that was fair and terrible came even to the City.

* * *

It seemed that he was wandering on distant roads, seeking desperately for the Sword that was Broken, searching on dark paths, assailed on all sides by foes. Again and again he saw the arrow flying through the air and fell. Once he with all the land of Westernesse fell into the deep water of the Sea and drowned, only to find he was on fire. Once he fell into an endless chasm and found himself borne up by eagles to dizzying heights. And sometimes it was an orc that shot him, and sometimes a cruel-faced Southron whose dark face melted into Frodo's homely features just as he loosed the bolt. And once it was Denethor, who said, "If you die, my son Boromir will bring me the Sword that was Broken, and I shall be king!" and shot him. And still he searched, endlessly, and sometimes he saw before him a dark figure with a gleaming sword and a star upon his brow and cried out, "My lord!" But the figure came closer and shrunk, and it was a hobbit who said to him, "Do not weep, lord." He wanted to ask if the halfling knew of the Sword that was Broken, but he heard his father's voice beside him saying, "I sent my son forth, unthanked, unblessed, out into needless peril, and here he lies with poison in his veins."

"But, Father, Boromir will return," Faramir said clearly. "Give no thought to me, for I am dead." And his father turned, and he was the Dark Captain, and Faramir cried out and fell from his horse and was trampled by the Haradrim horses. The hoofs became heavy footfalls in leaves, and he was standing in a wooded hillside watching two small figures flee from a company of orcs. Pippin was one of the frightened figures, and as he fled he shouted, "Faramir! Faramir!" But Faramir could do nothing because the fear of the Black Captain was upon him. Then Boromir leapt between the orcs and the hobbits and defended them valiantly, and even as Faramir saw him struck with many arrows and the hobbits carried away, he could do nothing. But another man came running with drawn sword, and though his face was obscured, there was a light like a star on his brow, and he knelt beside Boromir.

"I tried to take the Ring from Frodo," Boromir said. "I am sorry. I have paid. Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed."

"No!" said the man, taking his hand and kissing his brow. "You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall!"

Boromir smiled, and peace and beauty were on his face, and then the man wept. Faramir cried, "But he is not dead, my lord! Many arrows could not fell Boromir the brave, but one will be enough for me!" And again he fell, and orcs caught him and bore him slowly away, and when they paused he opened his eyes, and there was the dead White Tree before him. It faded slowly from his vision, and he was plunged into a hot darkness, and there were voices all around him shouting of fear and fire and death. Then deep silence, and he dreamed his father lay down beside him and they were covered with one cloth, and his father said in a low voice. "Bring us wood quick to burn, and lay it all about us, and beneath; and pour oil upon it. And when I bid you, thrust in a torch. Do this and speak no more to me." There was fire in his voice and fire in Faramir's flesh and noise from without. He dreamed Denethor leapt up and was shouting, and there was a great white light and his father was crying, "All shall be burned! The West has failed. It shall all go up in a great fire, and all shall be ended. Ash! Ash and smoke blown away in the wind!"

Strong arms gently raised him, and the Black Captain was bearing him away from Denethor, and he cried, "Father! Father!" And there was the sound of weeping and his father's voice: "Do not take my son from me! He calls for me. Why should we wish to live longer? Why should we not go to death side by side?" Then there was a great roaring of fire and screaming, and Faramir knew his father loved him and was dead. And for the last time the Southron bolt hit him, and it hurt, and he fell from his horse and all was darkness.


	8. A Sword Day, A Red Day

**A Sword Day, A Red Day**

**Chapter 8**

Éowyn followed the king and his knights as they turned toward the City that was now less than a mile distant, seeking new foes. Well nigh all the northern half of the Pelennor was overrun, and there camps were blazing, orcs were flying towards the River like herds before the hunters; and the Rohirrim went hither and thither at their will. But they had not yet overthrown the siege nor won the Gate. Many foes stood before it, and on the further half of the plain were other hosts still unfought. Fire sang in Éowyn's blood as they rode on, and none could stand before her spear. Meriadoc behind her was doing his part, clinging to her with one hand and inexpertly but effectively whacking enemies who did not expect a small passenger behind a Rider of Rohan. Now they charged behind the king as he rode for the main force of the Haradrim under their standard, black serpent upon scarlet. Those following the White Horse upon Green were fewer, but the white fury of the North-men burned the hotter, and more skilled was their knighthood with long spears and bitter. They clove through the Southrons like a fire-bolt in a forest. Out of the corner of her eye, Éowyn saw the king's spear fell the Southron chieftain, and she shouted to him, feeling almost alive for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime. The remaining Haradrim cavalry was fleeing far away and the Riders pursuing and turning again toward the city.

But suddenly it was as if a hand had stolen the new morning from the sky and terror fell all around. Éowyn's heart had not quailed as she met the enemy, both orc and men; she had not winced at cuts and blows; she had not stayed her hand in anything. But fear overcame her now as down from the sky like a falling cloud came a huge shape like a featherless bird. Meriadoc was screaming behind her. Before her the king was crying, "To me! To me! Up Eorlingas! Fear no darkness!" But Snowmane, wild with terror stood up on high, fighting with the air, and then with a great scream he crashed upon his side: a black dart had pierced him. And stabbing through Éowyn's fear was horror, for Théoden fell beneath the great bulk of his steed. Windfola was maddened with fear, and Éowyn found herself thrown by the steed whose steady strength had borne her and Meriadoc so far. For a second she lay, stunned, but all around her the knights of Théoden's household were fleeing, and the foul dark thing had settled upon the body of Snowman, digging in its claws, stooping its long naked neck.

Upon it sat a shape, black-mantled, huge and threatening. A crown of steel he bore, but between rim and robe naught was there to see, save only a deadly rim of eyes; the Lord of the Nazgûl. He was come bringing ruin, turning hope to despair, and victory to death.

But Éowyn had long ago tasted despair and had come expecting and hoping only for death, and the fear this thing wielded was no blacker than the darkness in her heart. She looked at the king as he lay crushed beneath his horse and knew not whether he was dead or no, but if he were, this foul thing would not touch his body. She rose to her feet, though tears streamed down her face, for she had loved her lord as a father, and she raised her shield against the horror of the enemy's eyes and said in a ringing voice, "Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!"

A cold voice answered: "Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentations, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye."

Éowyn drew her sword, and it rang with the voice of many battles and many victories. "Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may."

"Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!"

And suddenly Éowyn laughed, her clear voice like a ring of steel, for that which she had always detested, her womanhood, was her greatest strength. Her helm had fallen as she fell from Windfola, and she loosed the bonds of her bright hair so it streamed with pale gold upon her shoulders. "But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you if you touch him."

The Black Captain was silent before her as if in sudden doubt, but his great beast beat its hideous wings, and the wind of them was foul. Again it leaped into the air, and then swiftly fell down upon her, shrieking, striking with beak and claw. Still she did not blench: maiden of the Rohirrim, child of kings, slender but as a steel-blade, fair yet terrible. A swift stroke she dealt, skilled and deadly. The outstretched neck she clove asunder, and the hewn neck fell like a stone. Backward she sprang as the huge shape crashed to ruin, vast wings outspread, crumpled on the earth; and with its fall the shadow passed away.

Out of the wreck rose the Black Rider, tall and threatening, towering above her. She lifted her sword, still dripping with the foul blood of his mount. With a cry of hatred that stung her ears like venom he let fall his great black mace. She caught it with her shield and its metal was shivered into many pieces; she felt her arm break under the blow and her knees give way with the pain. He bent over her like a cloud, and his eyes glittered; he raised his mace to kill. _So I come to my death at last, and I have not saved the king,_ was her last bitter thought as she prepared for the blow.

But out of the corner of her eye she saw movement, a flutter of a grey cloak and the shine of a knife, and the Black Rider stumbled forward with a cry of bitter pain, and his stroke went wide, driving into the ground. Behind him Meriadoc stood, and he cried, "Éowyn! Éowyn!" The hobbit's voice, full of love and tears, gave her strength, and tottering, struggling up, with that last strength she drove her sword between crown and mantle, as the great shoulders bowed before her. The sword broke sparkling into many shards, and coldness spread up her arm and through her body. She fell forward upon her fallen foe and continued falling into ever increasing darkness and chill.  


* * *

And there stood Meriadoc the hobbit in the midst of the slain, blinking like an owl in the daylight, for tears blinded him; and through a mist he looked on Éowyn's fair head, as she lay and did not move; and he looked on the face of the king, fallen in the midst of his glory. Théoden opened his eyes, and they were clear, and he spoke in a quiet voice though laboured.

"Farewell, Master Holbytla!" he said. "My body is broken. I go now to my fathers. And even in their mighty company I shall not now be ashamed. I felled the black serpent. A grim morn, and a glad day, and a golden sunset!"

Meriadoc could not speak but wept anew. "Forgive me, lord," he said at last, "if I broke your command, and yet have done no more in your service than to weep at our parting."

The old king smiled. "Grieve not! It is forgiven. Great heart will not be denied." He closed his eyes. Presently he spoke again. "Where is Éomer? For my eyes darken, and I would see him ere I go. He must be king after me. And I would send word to Éowyn. She, she would not have me leave her, and now I shall not see her again, dearer than daughter."

"Lord, lord," began Meriadoc brokenly, "she is—"; but at that moment there was a great clamour, and all about them horns and trumpets were blowing. They were in danger of being caught in the midst of the great battle that would soon be joined.

New forces from the enemy were hastening up the road from the River; and from under the walls came the legions of Morgul; and from the southward fields came the footmen of Harad with horsemen before them, and behind them rose the huge backs of the _mûmakil_ with war-towers upon them. But northward the white crest of Éomer led the great front of the Rohirrim which he had again gathered and marshalled; and out of the City came all the strength of men that was in it, and the silver swan of Dol Amroth was borne in the van, driving the enemy from the gate. Éomer rode up in haste, and with him came the knights of the household that still lived and had now mastered their horses. They looked in wonder at the carcase of the fell beast that lay there; and their steeds would not go near. But Éomer leaped from the saddle, and grief and dismay fell upon him as he came to the king's side and stood there in silence.

Then one of the knights took the king's banner form the hand of Guthláf the banner-bearer who lay dead, and he lifted it up. Slowly Théoden opened his eyes. Seeing the banner he made a sign that it should be given to Éomer.

"Hail, King of the Mark!" he said. "Ride now to victory! Bid Éowyn farewell!" And so he died, and knew not that Éowyn lay near him. And those who stood by wept, crying, "Théoden King! Théoden King!"

But Éomer said to them:

_Mourn not overmuch! Mighty was the fallen,_

_meet was his ending. When his mound is raised,_

_women then shall weep. War now calls us!_

Yet he himself wept as he spoke. "Let his knights remain here," he said, "and bear his body in honour from the field, lest the battle ride over it. Yea, and all these other of the king's men that lie here." And he looked at the slain, recalling their names. Then suddenly he beheld his sister Éowyn as she lay, and he knew her. He stood a moment as a man who is pierced in the midst of a cry by an arrow through the heart; and then his face went deathly white, and a cold fury rose in him, so that all speech failed him for a while. A fey mood took him.

"Éowyn, Éowyn!" he cried at last. "Éowyn, how come you here? What madness or devilry is this? Death, death, death! Death take us all!"

Then without taking counsel or waiting for the approach of men from the City, he spurred headlong back to the front of the great host, and blew a horn, and cried aloud for the onset. Over the field rang his clear voice calling: "Death! Ride, ride to ruin and world's ending!"

And with that the host began to move. But the Rohirrim sang no more. _Death_ they cried with one voice loud and terrible, and gathering speed like a great tide their battle swept about their fallen king and passed, roaring away southwards. And now the fighting waxed furious on the fields of the Pelennor. Under the south walls of the City the footmen of Gondor now drove against the legions of Morgul that were still gathered there in strength. But the horsemen rode eastward to the succor of Éomer: Húrin the Tall, Warden of the Keys, and the Lord of Lossarnach, and Hirluin of the Green Hills, and Prince Imrahil the fair with his knights all about him.

Not too soon came their aid to the Rohirrim; for fortune had turned against Éomer, and his fury had betrayed him. The Rohirrim at their onset were thrice outnumbered by the Haradrim alone, and soon their case became worse; for new strength came now streaming to the field out of Osgiliath. Some now hastened up behind the Rohirrim, others held westward to hold off the forces of Gondor and prevent their joining with Rohan.

It was even as the day thus began to turn against Gondor and their hope wavered that a new cry went up in the City, it being then mid-morning, and a great wind blowing, and the rain flying north, and the suns hinging. In that clear air watchmen on the walls saw afar a new sight of fear, and their last hope left them.

For Anduin so flowed that from the City men could look down it lengthwise some leagues, and the far-sighted could see any ships that approached. And looking thither they cried in dismay, for black against the glittering stream they beheld a fleet borne up on the wind, with black sails bellying in the breeze.

"The Corsairs of Umbar!" the men shouted. "The Corsairs of Umbar! Look! The Corsairs of Umbar are coming! So Belfalas is taken, and the Ethir, and Lebennin is gone. The Corsairs are upon us! It is the last stroke of doom!"

The Rohirrim indeed had no need for news or alarm. All too well they could see for themselves the black sails. For Éomer was now scarcely a mile from the Harlond, and a great press of his first foes was between him and the haven there, while new foes came swirling behind, cutting him off from the Prince. Now he looked to the River, and hope died in his heart, and the wind that he had blessed he now called accursed. But the hosts of Mordor were enheartened, and filled with a new lust and fury they came yelling to the onset.

Stern now was Éomer's mood, and his mind clear again. He let blow the horns to rally all men to his banner that could come thither; for he thought to make a great shield-wall at the last, and stand, and fight there on foot till all fell, and do deeds of song on the fields of Pelennor, though no man should be left in the West to remember the last King of the Mark. So he rode to a green hillock and there set his banner, and the White Horse ran rippling in the wind.

_Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising_

_I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing._

_To hope's end I rode and to heart's breaking:_

_Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!_

These staves he spoke, yet he laughed as he said them. For once more lust of battle was on him; and he was still unscathed, and he was young, and he was king: the lord of a fell people. And lo! even as he laughed at despair he looked out again on the black ships, and he lifted up his sword to defy them.

And then wonder took him, and a great joy; and he cast his sword up in the sunlight and sang as he caught it. And all eyes followed his gaze, and behold! upon the foremost ship a great standard broke, and the wind displayed it as she turned towards the Harlond. There flowered a White Tree, and that was for Gondor; but Seven Stars were about it, and a high crown above it, the signs of Elendil that no lord had borne for years beyond count. And the stars flamed in the sunlight for they were wrought of gems by Arwen daughter of Elrond; and the crown was bright in the morning, for it was wrought of mithril and gold.

Thus came Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elessar, Isildur's heir, out of the Paths of the Dead, borne upon a wind from the Sea to the kingdom of Gondor; and the mirth of the Rohirrim was a torrent of laughter and a flashing of swords, and the joy and wonder of the City was music of trumpets and a ringing of bells. But the hosts of Mordor were seized with bewilderment, and a great wizardry it seemed to them that their own ships should be filled with their foes; and a black dread fell on them, knowing that the tides of fate had turned against them and their doom was at hand.

East rode the knights of Dol Amroth driving the enemy before them. South strode Éomer and men fled before his face, and they were caught between the hammer and the anvil. For now men leaped from the ships to the quays of the Harlond and swept north like a storm. There came Legolas, and Gimli wielding his axe, and Halbarad with the standard, and Elladan and Elrohir with stars on their brow, and the dour-handed Dúnedain, Rangers of the North, leading a great valour of the folk of Lebennin and Lemedon and the fiefs of the South. But before all went Aragon with the Flame of the West, Andúril like a new fire kindled, Narsil re-forged as deadly as of old; and upon his brow was the star of Elendil.

And so at length Éomer and Aragorn met in the midst of the battle, and they leaned on their swords and looked on one another and were glad.

"Thus we meet again, though all the hosts of Mordor lay between us," said Aragorn. "Did I not say so at the Hornburg?"

"So you spoke," said Éomer, "but hope oft deceives, and I knew not then that you were a man foresighted. Yet twice blessed is help unlooked for, and never was a meeting of friends more joyful." And they clasped hand in hand. "Nor indeed more timely," said Éomer. "You came none too soon, my friend. Much loss and sorrow has befallen us."

"Then let us avenge it, ere we speak of it!" said Aragorn, and they rode back to battle together.

It was a great battle and victory and the full count of it no tale has told, and many were hurt or maimed or dead upon the field. No few had fallen, renowned or nameless, captain or soldier; neither Hirluin the fair would return to Pinnath Gelin, nor Dúnhere to Harrowdale, nor Grimbold to Grimslade, nor Halbarad to the Northlands, dour-handed Ranger.


	9. The Hands of the King

**The Hands of the King**

**Chapter 9**

With a sigh, you turn away

With a deepening heart; no more word to say.

You will find that the world has changed forever.

The trees are now turning from green to gold,

And the sun is now fading.

I wish I could hold you closer.

Men raised the king, and laying cloaks upon spear-truncheons they made shift to bear him away towards the City; and others lifted Éowyn gently up and bore her after him. A great rain came out of the Sea, and it seemed that all things wept for Théoden and Éowyn, quenching the fires in the City with grey tears. Through a mist presently the van of the men of Gondor approached. Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, rode up and drew rein before them.

"What burden do you bear, Men of Rohan?" he cried.

"Théoden King," they answered. "He is dead. But Éomer King now rides in the battle: he with the white crest in the wind."

Then the prince went from his horse, and knelt by the bier in honour of the king and his great onset; and he wept. And rising he looked then on Éowyn and was amazed. "Surely, here is a woman?" he said. "Have even the women of the Rohirrim come to war in our need?"

"Nay! One only," they answered. "The Lady Éowyn is she, sister of Éomer; and we knew naught of her riding until this hour, and greatly we rue it."

Then the prince seeing her beauty, though her face was pale and cold, touched her hand as he bent to look more closely on her. "Men of Rohan!" he cried. "She is hurt, to the death, maybe, but I deem that she yet lives." And he held the bright-burnished vambrace that was upon his arm before her cold lips, and behold! a little mist was laid on it hardly to be seen.

"Haste is now needed," he said, and he sent one riding back swiftly to the City to bring aid. But he, bowing low to the fallen, bid them farewell, and mounting rode away into battle.

Already men were labouring to clear a way through the jetsam of battle; and now out from the Gate came some bearing litters. Gently they laid Éowyn upon soft pillows; but the king's body they covered with a great cloth of gold, and they bore torches about him, and their flames, pale in the sunlight, were fluttered by the wind.

So Théoden and Éowyn came to the City of Gondor, and all who saw them bared their heads and bowed; and they passed through the ash and fume of the burned circle, and went on and up along the streets of stone. So at last Faramir and Éowyn and Meriadoc, too, were laid in beds in the Houses of Healing; and there they were tended well. For though all lore was in these latter days fallen from its fullness of old, the leechcraft of Gondor was still wise, and skilled in the healing of wound and hurt, and all such sickness as east of the Sea mortal men were subject to. But now their art and knowledge were baffled; for there were many sick of a malady that would not be healed; and they called it the Black Shadow, for it came from the Nazgûl. And those who were stricken with it fell slowly into ever deeper dream, and then passed to silence and a deadly cold, and so died. And it seemed to the tenders of the sick that on the Halfling and on the Lady of Rohan the malady lay heavily. But Faramir burned with a fever that would not abate.

Then an old wife, Ioreth, the eldest of the women who served in that house, looking on the fair face of Faramir, wept, for all the people loved him. And she said: "Alas if he should die. Would that there were kings in Gondor, as there were once upon a time, they say! For it is said in old lore: _The hands of the king are the hands of a healer._ And so the rightful king could ever be known."

Aragorn and Éomer and Imrahil rode back towards the Gate of the City, and they were now weary beyond joy or sorrow. These three were unscathed, for such was their fortune and the skill and might of their arms, and few indeed had dared to abide them or look on their faces in the hour of their wrath. Prince Imrahil and Éomer of Rohan left Aragorn and passed through the City and the tumult of the people, and mounted to the Citadel; and they came to the Hall of the Tower, seeking the Steward. But they found his chair empty, and before the dais lay Théoden King of the Mark upon a bed of state; and twelve torches stood about it, and twelve guards, knights both of Rohan and Gondor. And the hangings of the bed were of green and white, but upon the king was laid the great cloth of gold up to his breast, and upon that his unsheathed sword, and at his feet his shield. The light of the torches shimmered in his white hair like sun in the spray of a fountain, but his face was fair and young, save that a peace lay on it beyond the reach of youth; and it seemed that he slept.

When they had stood silent for a time beside the king, Imrahil said: "Where is the Steward? And where also Mithrandir?"

And one of the guards answered: "The Steward of Gondor is in the Houses of Healing."

But Éomer said: "Where is the Lady Éowyn, my sister, for surely she should be lying beside the king, and in no less honour? Where have they bestowed her?"

And Imrahil said: "But the Lady Éowyn was yet living when they bore her hither. Did you not know?"

Then hope unlooked-for came so suddenly to Éomer's heart, and with it the bite of care and fear renewed, that he said no more, but turned and went swiftly from the hall; and the Prince followed him. And when they came forth evening had fallen and many stars were in the sky. And there came Gandalf on foot and with him one cloaked in grey; and they met before the doors of the Houses of Healing. And they greeted Gandalf and said: "We seek the Steward, and men say that he is in this House. Has any hurt befallen him? And the Lady Éowyn, where is she?"

And Gandalf answered: "She lies within and is not dead, but is near death. But the Lord Faramir was wounded by an evil dart, as you have heard, and he is now the Steward, for Denethor has departed, and his house is in ashes." And they were filled with grief and wonder at the tale that he told.

But Imrahil said: "So victory is shorn of gladness, and it is bitter bought, if both Gondor and Rohan are in one day bereft of their lords. Éomer rules the Rohirrim. Who shall rule the City meanwhile? Shall we not send now for the Lord Aragorn?"

And the cloaked man spoke and said: "He is come." And they saw as he stepped into the light of the lantern by the door that it was Aragorn, wrapped in the grey cloak of Lórien above his mail, and bearing no other token than the green stone of Galadriel. "I have come because Gandalf begs me to do so," he said. "But for the present I am but the Captain of the Dúnedain of Arnor; and the Lord of Dol Amroth shall rule the City until Faramir awakes. But it is my counsel that Gandalf should rule us all in the days that follow and in our dealings with the Enemy." And they agreed upon that.

Then Gandalf said: "Let us not stay at the door, for the time is urgent. Let us enter! For it is only in the coming of Aragorn that any hope remains for the sick that lie in the House. Thus spake Ioreth, wise-woman of Gondor: _The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known._"

Then Aragorn entered and the others followed. And there at the door were two guards in the livery of the Citadel: one tall, but the other scarce the height of a boy; and when he saw them he cried aloud in surprise and joy. And they passed into the House; and as they went towards the rooms where the sick were tended Gandalf told of the deeds of Éowyn and Meriadoc. "For," he said, "long have I stood by them, and at first they spoke much in their dreaming, before they sank into the deadly darkness. Also it is given to me to see many things far off."

Aragon went first to Faramir, and then to the Lady Éowyn, and last to Meriadoc. When he had looked on the faces of the sick and seen their hurts he sighed. "Here I must put forth all such power and skill as is given to me," he said. "Would that Elrond were here, for he is the elder of all our race, and has the greater power."

And Éomer seeing that he was both sorrowful and weary said: "First you must rest, surely, and at the least eat a little?"

But Aragorn answered: "Nay, for these three, and more soon for Faramir, time is running out. All speed is needed." And he sent Ioreth forth for _athelas_, and when she was gone he bade the other women to make water hot. Then he took Faramir's hand in his, and laid the other hand upon the sick man's brow. It was drenched with sweat; but Faramir did not move or make any sign, and seemed hardly to breathe.

"He is nearly spent," said Aragorn turning to Gandalf. "But this comes not from the wound. See! that is healing. Had he been smitten by some dart of the Nazgûl, as you thought, he would have died that night. This hurt was given by some Southron arrow, I would guess. Who drew it forth? Was it kept?"

"I drew it forth," said Imrahil, "and staunched the wound. But I did not keep the arrow, for we had much to do. It was, as I remember, just such a dart as the Southrons use. Yet I believed that it came from the Shadows above, for else his fever and sickness were not to be understood; since the wound was not deep or vital. How then do you read the matter?"

"Weariness, grief for his father's mood, a wound, and over all the Black Breath," said Aragorn. "He is a man of staunch will, for already he had come close under the Shadow before ever he rode to battle on the out-walls. Slowly the dark must have crept on him, even as he fought and strove to hold his outpost. Would that I could have been here sooner!"

Now Aragorn knelt beside Faramir, and held a hand upon his brow. And those that watched felt that a great struggle was going on. For Aragorn's face grew grey with weariness; and ever and anon he called the name of Faramir, but each time more faintly to their hearing, as if Aragorn himself was removed from them, and walked afar in some dark vale, calling for one that was lost.

And at last a boy came running with six leaves in a cloth, and Aragorn smiled. "It will serve," he said." Then taking two leaves, he laid them on his hands and breathed on them, and then he crushed them, and straightway a living freshness filled the room, as if the air itself awoke and tingled, sparkling with joy. And then he cast the leaves into the bowls of steaming water that were brought to him, and at once all hearts were lightened. For the fragrance that came to each was like a memory of dewy mornings of unshadowed sun in some land of which the fair world in Spring is itself but a fleeting memory. But Aragorn stood up as one refreshed, and his eyes smiled as he held a bowl before Faramir's dreaming face.

Wandering long on cold, weary roads of darkness with neither sound nor sensation, Faramir heard a voice, and it called his name. He knew instantly who it was, and he tried to reply, to call out, "My lord!" but the darkness was so thick about him that he could make no sound, and he felt frozen to the spot. "Faramir! Faramir!" came the call, and it seemed to come ever closer. Then the darkness was filled with a scent as of green and growing things and the memory of light and beauty and song, and he felt his heart begin to beat again. Warmth and light swept away the cold and dark, and he opened his eyes. A man bent over him whose eyes smiled, and Faramir seemed to see glinting on his brow a star, though none was there. And a light of knowledge and love was kindled in Faramir's eyes, and he spoke softly. "My lord, you called me. I am come. What does the king command?"

"Walk no more in shadows, but awake!" said Aragorn son of Arathorn. "You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return."

"I will, lord," said Faramir, joy such as he had never known filling him. "For who would lie idle when the king has returned?"

"Farewell then for a while!" said Aragorn. "I must go to others who need me." And he left the chamber with those who had come to him save Beregond, Guard of the Citadel, and a boy as like him as to be his son, and they knelt in joy and kissed Faramir's hands.

But Faramir got up, slowly because of his wound, and went to the window and opened it and looked out upon the Pelennor Fields and knew Minas Tirith was saved and the words Aragorn had spoken to his brother in his dream were true. And the King was returned.

He heard Aragorn speak as if beside him and realized he must have passed to an adjoining chamber and his voice was carried out on the wind for Faramir to hear. He sat in the windowsill and listened, still overcome by what he had scarcely dared dream of.

"Here there is a grievous hurt and a heavy blow. The arm that was broken has been tended with due skill, and it will mend in time, if she has the strength to live."

_She! How did it come that there were women in a battle? From whence came she of whom the King speaks?_

"It is the shield-arm that is maimed; but the chief evil comes through the sword-arm. In that there now seems no life, although it is unbroken.

"Alas! For she was pitted against a foe beyond the strength of her mind or body. And those who will take a weapon to such an enemy must be sterner than steel if the very shock shall not destroy them." His voice was sad with the pain of another. "It was an evil doom that set her in his path. For she is a fair maiden, fairest lady of a house of queens."

_Can it be she stood against the Black Captain?_ Faramir thought in wonder. The horror of that dread lord had passed very far away and no longer had power to touch him, but the remembrance of him was great. _How can it be that a woman may face such a foe? For no man could stand against him. Yet a lady of a house of queens—no such woman in Gondor is known to me. May she then be of the Rohirrim? If so, I can believe one of their women would undertake to fight even a Nazgûl. Yet maybe I misunderstand and it was only a great orc commander she faced._

"When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness," Aragorn told Éomer, "it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die. Her malady begins far back before this day, does it not, Éomer?"

His words pierced the heart of his unseen hearer, who wished he knew the tale of this maiden frozen by the frost of the soul's winter. He heard the accent of the next speaker and knew he was of the Rohirrim:

"I marvel that you should ask me, lord. For I hold you blameless in this matter, as in all else, yet I know not that Éowyn, my sister, was touched by any frost, until she first looked on you. Care and dread she had, and shared with me, in the days of Wormtongue and the king's bewitchment; and she tended the king in growing fear. But that did not bring her to this pass!" Yet it seemed that despite his stout words there was doubt in his voice. In truth, Éomer did not want to believe that his sister had undergone so much and he had been blind to it.

Gandalf said gently, "My friend, you had horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields; but she, born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait upon an old man whom she loved as a father, and watch him falling into a mean dishonoured dotage; and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff he leaned on. Think you that Wormtongue had poison only for Théoden's ears? _Dotard! What is the House of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among their dogs?_ Have you not heard those words before? Saruman spoke them, the teacher of Wormtongue. Though I do not doubt that Wormtongue at home wrapped their meanings in terms more cunning. My lord, if your sister's love for you, and her will still bent to her duty, had not restrained her lips, you might have heard even such things as these escape them. But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?"

Then Éomer was silent, and looked at his sister, as if pondering anew all the days of their past life together. And the words of Mithrandir had so pierced Faramir's heart with pity for the unseen maiden named Éowyn that tears streamed down his face. But Aragorn said: "I saw also what you saw, Éomer. Few other griefs amid the ill chances of this world have more bitterness and shame for a man's heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned. Sorrow and pity have followed me ever since I left her desperate in Dunharrow and rode to the Paths of the Dead; and no fear upon that way was so present as the fear for what might befall her. And yet, Éomer, I say to you that she loves you more truly than me; for you she loves and knows; but in me she loves only a shadow and a thought: a hope of glory and great deeds, and lands far from the fields of Rohan.

"I have, maybe, the power to heal her body, and to recall her from the dark valley. But to what she will awake: hope, or forgetfulness, or despair, I do not know. And if to despair, then she will die, unless other healing comes which I cannot bring. Alas! for her deeds have set her among the queens of great renown."

Then Aragorn stooped and looked in her face, and it was indeed white as a lily, cold as frost, and hard as graven stone. But he bent and kissed her on the brow, and called her softly, saying:

"Éowyn Éomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!"

She did not stir, but now she began again to breathe deeply, so that her breast rose and fell beneath the white linen of the sheet. Once more Aragorn bruised two leaves of _athelas_ and cast them into steaming water; and he laved her brow with it, and her right arm lying cold and nerveless on the coverlet.

Then, whether Aragorn had indeed some forgotten power of Westernesse, or whether it was but his words of the Lady Éowyn that wrought on them, as the sweet influence of the herb stole about the chamber it seemed to those who stood by and he who sat in the next window that a keen wind blew in, and it bore no scent, but was an air wholly fresh and clean and young, as if it had not before been breathed by any living thing and came new-made from snowy mountains high beneath a dome of stars, or from shores of silver far away washed by seas of foam.

"Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!" said Aragorn again, and he took her right hand in his and felt it warm with life returning. "Awake! The shadow is gone and all darkness is washed clean!" Then he laid her hand in Éomer's and stepped away. "Call her!" he said, and he passed silently from the chamber.

* * *

She was standing again in Meduseld behind the bent form of the king, and Gríma was there at his side, stroking his arm with clammy fingers. But he stood up and called for horse and sword, and he turned and said to her with Gríma's voice, "You may not ride to war. You are but a woman and must not leave this hall while we are gone. I ride to my death, and you must stay." And he closed the doors behind him.

Away the host rode, and there she stood with Gríma while the air was full of voices that whispered and laughed. And soon Gríma came to her and said, "The king is dead outside the walls of Minas Tirith. He was felled by the Black Captain of the hosts of Morgul, and no one was there to save him. He was borne away to the houses of lamentation beyond all darkness, where his flesh shall be devoured, and his shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye. And here art thou in a cage with only me to comfort thee."

He reached out a hand to her cheek, and she could not move, for she was a frozen statue. A dark voice said out of the blackness, "Now Éomer rides to his death, and never will he come back and all shall fall, and you will remain, frozen scion of a broken House."

And into the darkness came a ringing voice saying: "Éowyn Éomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!" Cool, fresh, new air blew about her, and the voice said again, "Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!" A hand took hers and warmth began to flow back into her body. "Awake! The shadow is gone and all the darkness is washed clean!" And the wind was blowing the darkness away, and her hand was placed in a strong, warm, familiar hand, and a beloved voice, choked with tears, cried, "Éowyn, Éowyn!"

She opened her eyes and there was her brother whom she had so clearly seen but a moment before dead upon a bier in the Golden Hall, and his hot tears fell on her face. "Éomer! What joy is this? They said you were slain. Nay, but that was only the dark voices in my dream. How long have I been dreaming?"

"Not long, my sister. But think no more on it!"

"I am strangely weary. I must rest a little. But tell me, what of the Lord of the Mark? Alas! Do not tell me that that was a dream; for I know that it was not. He is dead as he foresaw."

"He is dead," said Éomer, "but he bade me say farewell to Éowyn, dearer than daughter. He lies now in great honour in the Citadel of Gondor."

"That is grievous," she said, closing her eyes but quickly opening them again to escape the darkness. "And yet it is good beyond all that I dared hope in the dark days, when it seemed that the House of Eorl was sunk in honour less than any shepherd's cot. And what of the king's esquire, the Halfling? Éomer, you shall make him a knight of the Riddermark, for he is valiant!"

"He lies nearby in this House, and I will go to him," said Gandalf. "Éomer shall stay for a while. But do not speak yet of war or woe, until you are made whole again. Great gladness it is to see you wake again to health and hope, so valiant a lady!"

"To health?" said Éowyn. _I had hoped to die, and even that is taken from me._ "It may be so. At least while there is an empty saddle of some fallen Rider that I can fill, and there are deeds to do. But to hope? I do not know." And she was silent while the tears of Éomer fell on the hand he still held and the tears of Faramir fell unheeded from the window.

* * *

So Faramir, weary, returned to his bed and thought much on the quiet, emotionless voice he had heard and the many new riddles and mysteries the maiden of Rohan had brought until he went to sleep again with the cleansing scent of _athelas_ all around him. And his thoughts had not once turned to father or brother, so full of joy for the King and pity for the maiden was he.

Faramir slept well and deeply, and his sleep was not disturbed by dreams, good or ill. When he awoke he was given good food and drink, and he slept again, and it was a clear afternoon when he again awoke and sat up.

_How much of it has been a dream?_ A wise-woman of the Houses of Healing sat near him and he asked her, "What of the King?"

Ioreth's blue eyes sparkled in her old face. "Aye, he was here, my lord, and wonders he worked with you and many others. _The hands of the king are the hands of a healer,_ I said, and the old Wizard sent for him straightway. And now he is outside the City, and men wonder if the coming of the King was a dream, but well I know it was not."

"And my father—does he know?" He said it to himself, but the woman's face clouded a little.

"As to that, my lord, perhaps you'll speak to Beregond and the little fellow who keeps asking after you. I wondered why they put a child in the livery of the Citadel, but 'twould seem he is not a child but a great warrior, and he has been all the day with the other like him and an Elf and a Dwarf. An odd company, no doubt of that!"

"The other like him!" cried Faramir. "Was he called Merry?"

"Indeed, my lord, he was, and very merry are the little fellows! I made sure to be near when they met their friends, and never did I see such joy among such separate peoples, and not a Man among them."

"Ah, but the Men who are—or were—their friends are among the Great of the land, and these hobbits are but simple folk. Call them to me, and the Elf and Dwarf also, if they would so honour me."

Ioreth was about to protest so much company, but she saw that there was colour in his face and a shine in his eye, and she made him a courtesy and did his bidding. Soon the hobbits came bounding in and behind them an Elf and a Dwarf and Beregond, and Pippin stopped and made a low bow and came and kissed Faramir's hand, tears sparkling in his eyes. "My lord Faramir!"

Faramir put his hand on Pippin's hair. "My good Pippin, I have seen you but once before, but my heart inclines ever more to hobbits. This will be the valiant Merry, of whom I have heard rumours and have much wanted to meet?"

The other hobbit blushed, but he bowed with a smile.

"And Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli of the Mountain. I greet you, lords, who were companions of my brother Boromir." He bowed his head, and they made bows in their own fashions, the Elf with beauty and grace, and the Dwarf with an incomprehensible utterance in his own tongue and a twinkle in his eye.

"Please, my lord," Pippin blurted, "I told them what you told us—in the great hall—of our other friends. Our hearts are very heavy for them, but no one can tell us more, and we dare not guess, nor hardly hope."

"You must hope," Faramir said gently. "I would scarce hope for the return of the King, yet he has come and I have seen him. Many things unlooked-for have happened beyond hope. But tell me now, for the wise-woman would not tell me: where is the Steward? Why has he not come to me? What says he of the King?"

Pippin and Beregond exchanged stricken glances. Beregond stepped forward and knelt. "My Lord Faramir, you are the Steward of Gondor. The Lord Denethor is dead."

Faramir stared at them for a moment, and then he turned his face away and wept. _Alas that the days of the King are come and I alone of my kin live to see them! Alas for Boromir the brave and Denethor the wise!_ When he was master of himself again, he saw that only Pippin and Beregond remained in the room with him, and they too wept.

"I seem to remember now," he said quietly, "dreams wherein I knew he was dead. Dark dreams I do not like to recall and have not yet the strength to bear. I dread to hear the tale you must tell me. Stay! Do not tell it now. But tell me— tell me—" He could not continue, but somehow Pippin knew what he was asking.

"My lord, his thoughts were on you when he died, and I saw an agony of grief and love in his eyes when he thought you were dead."

Faramir closed his eyes. _Then what Mithrandir said was true. My father did love me and remembered it in the end._ "I thank you for this, Pippin. You heal my heart of much old pain. Now, my good friends, leave me, for my strength is spent in my grief, and sleep will bring healing to much more than an arrow-wound."

When they had withdrawn, he wept again for his father and for long, empty years. _I showed my quality, Father: the very highest!_

_

* * *

_

Éowyn awoke and wished she had not. The king was dead and she was not; Éomer was not there, so she was alone with her thoughts. Éomer had told her yesterday of Aragorn's success on the Paths of the Dead, the victory in battle, and the great work of healing Aragorn had wrought. And her thoughts were dark, for always it seemed true healing passed her by. Gandalf had come and brought forth Théoden from his darkness and cast down Gríma, but this had brought no light to her. Aragorn had returned beyond all hope and given her life when she hoped for death, but no warmth had returned to her heart. She flexed her sword-hand and found it strong, but her shield-arm was bandaged, and she regarded it with loathing. The Battle of the Pelennor Fields was a great victory, but it was not the end of the War. There would be more battles and more valour, and she would fight if she must do it one-handed without a shield. But would she always be fated to return to bodily health and go home to Rohan and the prison within the Golden Hall?

The sky was darkening to evening when Éomer strode into her room with news on his face that she knew she would not like.

"We ride to one last battle, and no doubt it is the end of all battles for us who go. We will ride against the Enemy at the Black Gate."

"But Éomer, this is folly!" she cried. "His great army is defeated and it will be much time before he may raise another, and in that time we may raise our own to counter it. But to ride against his very Gates now with so few men is folly."

"Nay, for there is a distant and desperate hope which I may not speak of. It is this desperate quest which will win or lose the War, not many men in battle. We are providing a diversion to draw all the Enemy's attention to us, for he will never imagine this other quest when his attention is upon us."

"Then," said Éowyn slowly, "it will be a ride and a battle of legend and of song."

"But none may survive to tell the tale and sing the song. We do not go to win; we go to succeed."

"I have not succeeded in what I set out to do," she said quietly. "When do the Riders leave? Windfola follows my commands without a rein, and my sword arm is fully healed."

"What are you speaking of?"

She stared at him. "You will need every sword you can muster, Éomer. Other Riders who were injured will go. I will as well."

"No, my sister, you will not." And his voice was stern, but he wept as he said it.

"Éomer! You cannot leave me here! Do you think that because I am a woman I must be doomed to sit in the house and wait for news of your death? Do you think I have no strength and valour of my own?"

"No, Éowyn, I do not think this. I have seen your deeds, and I honour you as a great Rider and warrior of the Rohirrim. Gandalf has opened my eyes to many things, and if you must die, I would wish it at my side with a sword in your hand and not in a city of stone with others defending you from horrors we cannot imagine. If the quest should come to naught. But you are not yet strong enough to survive the long ride to the Black Gate. Indeed, you may not stir from your bed for some days, and we will leave in the early morning of the second day from today. I wish you to gain your strength so that if it is required you may lead our people to battle until all have fallen, for it will be better, if the Dark Lord wins out, for death to come to all our people, men, women, and children, than to live as his slaves."

Éowyn lowered her face and wept, ashamed of her weakness, and she remembered Aragorn's words to her before he took the Paths of the Dead: _"A time may come soon when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised."_

"And what," she said, "if beyond all hope you return and light returns to the lands long under the shadow of the Dark Lord, and all around us great men have died in their service but I have remained useless here? For my darkness will still be dark, though all around me is light and joy. Éomer, I would go with you and die on the road rather than stay and live!"

She had never hinted these things to any but Aragorn. Her brother's arms went around her, and he wept into her bright hair. "Éowyn, I could wish anything for you but this darkness. But while there is life there is hope, and maybe it is here you will find your healing, for I cannot believe it is in death! My sister, if you have no hope, take what little I have left. Farewell! Maybe it will be that we shall meet again in better times!" He kissed her cold forehead, and she was alone in a house of stone.


	10. The First Presage of Spring

**The First Presage of Spring**

**Chapter 10**

Over the city of Gondor doubt and great dread hung. Fair weather and clear sun seemed but a mockery to men whose days held little hope, and who looked each morning for news of doom. Their lord was dead and burned, dead lay the King of Rohan in their citadel, and the new king that had come to them in the night was gone again to a war with powers too dark and terrible for any might or valour to conquer. And no news came, nor any rumour of what was passing in the brooding East.

Faramir, Steward of Gondor, walked alone in the garden of the Houses of Healing, and the sunlight warmed him, and he felt life run new in his veins; but his heart was heavy, and he looked out over the walls eastward. He knew the full tale of what the host had gone to do, for three days ago the Lord Aragorn had come to him again, and again he had been made joyful at the sight of his King. But they had spoken much, and Faramir had recounted again his dealings with Frodo and Samwise, and Aragorn had described the attempt they would make to give the Ringbearer some chance at his deed, if indeed he had made it alive out of Cirith Ungol.

Then Faramir asked, "My lord, I know time runs apace and you cannot tell the tale now, and maybe I will never hear its fullness, but can you tell me whether you were with my brother when he died?"

"I was, and great were his deeds in that hour," Aragorn answered sadly.

"I seemed to see you in a dream, beside his fallen body. Go now, my lord, and may the strength and virtue of our fathers be in you!"

And before the host had gone, Pippin had come to him and bid him farewell and asked him anxiously, "My lord, will you look after Merry? He is very downhearted that he may not go to the Black Gate because he is still mending, and I think maybe I will never see him again." Tears filled the hobbit's eyes.

Faramir took his hand. "You may be assured that I will. He will always have a place of honour with me, come what may, and if it happens that we too must ride to our deaths, he will go by my side. Take heart now, Pippin! If all comes to ruin, we have seen the King, and he at least will make such an end that even the Unnamed will shudder to remember it!"

But his heart was heavy as he looked now eastward and thought of the hobbit riding thither in such great company and of the two hobbits who maybe even now were toiling through a Dark Land no Man would dare.

* * *

Éowyn had remained in bed four interminable days. When she did not sleep, dark thoughts pursued her. She could not bear the inactivity, the waiting and doing nothing. The day after the host had gone, Meriadoc came in to see her for the first time. His eyes were troubled and anxious, but he smiled at her.

"My lady, I'm so very glad you're all right! I thought you were dead that day, and I thought I was dead, too."

She tried to reply cheerfully. "And yet here we both are, Master Meriadoc! Though it seems your recovery was swifter than mine."

He grinned. "I'm a hobbit, and we're made of tough stuff, they say." The grin faded. "But here I am alone again, my friends all gone to war and my good king lying dead in the Council chamber." He came up next to her bed and took her hand in both of his.

"Aye, he is dead," Éowyn answered. "But he foresaw it, and he did not die in ignominy and old age, as I had feared. He rode glorious and strong."

"Yes, he did, my lady, though my people have little knowledge of such things. He said, just before he died, that he went to his fathers, and even in their mighty company he should not now be ashamed. A golden sunset, he said."

"A golden sunset," she smiled tremulously.

"Yes. Oh my lady, all those days I did not know it was you, and when I did, I could not bear that you should die, though I knew you wanted to. I couldn't let you fall to – _him._"

Éowyn felt no resentment toward the hobbit. She squeezed his hand. "You saved me, Master Meriadoc, and you are very valiant. I should write a song about your deed, if I had the skill. And maybe there is something yet for me—something I do not see."

_"Still round the corner there may be a new road or a secret gate,"_ Meriadoc said quietly. "That is a song a friend of mine sings—sang."

"Is he dead?"

"I do not know. I may never know. He is gone far away, and he may never come back.

When the Captains were but two days gone, Éowyn bade the women who tended her to bring her raiment. They protested that she was not strong enough to rise, but she listened to none of it and rose, and they surrendered and brought her clothing. She would have preferred her comfortable Rider's garments to the fine blue dress they brought, but her clothes had been taken away, and they would only bring her women's garb. When they had clothed her and set her arm in a sling, she went to the Warden of the Houses of Healing, a tall, elderly man with white hair and a thin, wise face set with kind blue eyes.

"Sir," she said, "I am in great unrest, and I cannot lie longer in sloth."

"Lady," he answered, "you are not yet healed, and I was commanded to tend you with especial care. I beg you to go back."

"I am healed," she said, "healed at least in body. But I shall sicken anew, if there is naught that I can do. Are there no tidings of war?"

"There are no tidings, save that the Lords have ridden to Morgul-vale; and men say that the new captain out of the North is their chief. A great lord is that, and a healer; and it is a thing passing strange to me that the healing hand should also wield the sword. The world is full enough of hurts and mischances without wars to multiply them."

"It needs but one foe to breed a war, Master Warden. And those who have not swords can still die upon them. And it is not always good to be healed in body. Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would choose the latter." She clenched her hand beside her and turned and gazed out of his window that opened to the East with eyes bright in her white face. She wished she had eyes to see the host and its captain. She had not even been permitted to look in that direction, for her window faced South. "Is there no deed to do? Who commands this City?"

"I do not rightly know," he answered, his eyes sad on her face. "The Lord Faramir is by right the Steward of the City."

"Where can I find him?"

"In this house, Lady. He was sorely hurt, but is now set again on the way to health. But I do not know—"

"Will you not bring me to him? Then you will know."

And such was both her air of command and his pity for her that he bowed and led her to the gardens. There she saw a tall man walking slowly to and fro, gazing out from over the walls to the East, and he seemed somehow familiar. The Warden spoke his name, and when he turned she realized he brought to mind the warrior Boromir, whom she had seen once long ago. Like him he was, yet different, taller and not so broad, more sober of eye and yet more noble of carriage, touched with wisdom and something that spoke of purity. She thought also of the nobility of Aragorn, yet this young man seemed not so high and remote, not like a king but like one who was worthy to serve such a king and would serve him with honour.

* * *

Faramir turned and saw a woman walking toward him with the Warden, and upon the sight of her he was moved with pity, for he saw that she was hurt, and his clear sight perceived her sorrow and unrest. Tall, fair, and pale she was, clad in the garments of the women of Gondor, and her face was as stone, like a statue caught by some sculptor in a moment of great grief.

"My lord," said the Warden, "here is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan. She rode with the king and was sorely hurt, and dwells now in my keeping. But she is not content, and she wishes to speak to the Steward of the City."

_Ah, Lady, I have for many days wished to look upon your face._

"Do not misunderstand him, lord," said Éowyn, and though she spoke the Common Tongue, she had not the musical lilt of the people of Gondor, who often spoke the Eldar Tongue amongst themselves. Her accent of Rohan gave her speech a rich, strong, sonorous sound, as if she spoke her own language with words he could understand. "It is not lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer, for those who desire to be healed. But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged." She spoke the word bitterly, as if it bore great horror. "I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and the battle still goes on." She had meant only to ask the Steward for some duty to do, but in his grey eyes she found something that made her speak her heart.

Faramir motioned the Warden away and said quietly, "What would you have me do, lady? I also am a prisoner of the healers." He looked at her, and being a man whom pity deeply stirred, it seemed to him that her loveliness amid her grief would pierce his heart. _Would that I could help you! But not to your death._ And she looked at him and saw the grave tenderness in his eyes, and yet knew, for she was bred among men of war, that here was one whom no Rider of the Mark would outmatch in battle.

"What do you wish?" he said again. "If it lies in my power, I will do it."

_Elfhelm said that, and I know he regretted it greatly._ "I would have you command this Warden, and bid him let me go." She met his eyes, and though her words were still proud, her heart faltered, and for the first time she doubted herself. She guessed that this tall man, both stern and gentle, might think her merely wayward, like a child that has not the firmness of mind to go on with a dull task to the end. _And perhaps I am so._

"I myself am in the Warden's keeping," answered Faramir. "Nor have I yet taken up my authority in the City. But had I done so, I should still listen to his counsel, and should not cross his will in matters of his craft, unless in some great need." _Yet it was almost with relief that I learned I need not go to Morannon. Though I ache to defend my City and my people, it is good to not fight, to for once not feel as if the fate of all the land is resting on me._

"But I do not desire healing. I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace."

"It is too late, lady, to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength. But death in battle may come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure with patience the hours of waiting."

She did not answer, but she felt a little ashamed, and it was the wakening of a first healthy emotion and thought, brought not by condemnation from the Lord Faramir but by the understanding and compassion in his grey eyes. And as he looked at her it seemed to him that something in her softened, as though a bitter frost were yielding at the first presage of Spring. A tear sprang to her eye and fell down her cheek, like a glistening rain-drop. Her proud head drooped a little. Then quietly, more as if speaking to herself than to him, she said, "But the healers would have me lie abed seven days yet. And my window does not look eastward." Her voice was now that of a maiden young and sad.

Faramir smiled, though his heart was filled with pity. "Your window does not look eastward? That can be amended. If you will stay in this house in our care, lady, and take your rest, then you shall walk in this garden in the sun, as you will; and you shall look east, whither all our hopes have gone. And here you will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east. It would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me."

Then she raised her head and looked him in the eyes again; and a colour came in her pale face. "How should I ease your care, my lord?" she said. _What have I ever done to ease anyone's care? I fear I have added to the burden of care of many. Éomer rode not unburdened in heart eastward, as he should._ "And I do not desire the speech of living men."

"Would you have my plain answer?" he asked, wondering at himself.

"I would."

"Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back."

"Alas, not me, lord!" she said. "Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden, and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you for this at least, that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the City." And she did him a courtesy and walked back to the house, and she was thinking less on the shadow within her than the darkening of pain in the young Steward's eyes and regretting a little less her own life and a little more that she should be the one to give him the pain.

But Faramir for a long while walked alone in the garden. _If I have any grace to give, may it do more for her than allow her to walk abroad! May it bring the warmth of the Sun into her and drive out all shadow._ And he wondered again at himself that in so short a time he should feel such deep pity and pain for a woman. His life had been consumed with study and defence of his City, and now when neither was before him, the Lady Éowyn came to fill his heart with more than pity.

When he returned to his chamber he called for the Warden, and heard all that he could tell of the Lady of Rohan, for the overheard conversation on the day of the Battle had done little but arouse pity and pose many questions, but the Warden could tell him little. So he sent for Merry, and while that day lasted they talked long together. Merry told what he had been told and had seen and guessed of the full tale. Legolas and Gimli had told him much of the king and Wormtongue, and he described the silver, persuasive tongue of Saruman, the teacher of Wormtongue. He told Faramir of Éowyn's love for Aragorn and her despair at his passing into the Paths of the Dead, and Faramir remembered what Aragorn had said: _"In me she loves only a shadow and a thought: a hope of glory and great deeds, and lands far from the fields of Rohan."_ Then Merry told of looking into the hopeless eyes of the Rider he came to know as Dernhelm and of Dernhelm's great deeds. And Faramir learned much, more even than Merry put into words.

"Then it was indeed the Black Captain she slew. And you, Merry, had some part in it, though you speak little of that. I came much under his shadow, and ever I seemed to sink deeper into a kind of despair, but she has been under despair for many long months. The voice of Saruman ever working on her, draining all hope, and she always remaining in a dark house, who was born to ride free under the golden Sun. I do not wonder that her heart inclined to the free, valiant nobility of one such as Aragorn son of Arathorn. Has she hope there, think you?"

Merry shook his head. "I do not think so. He has often seemed melancholy, before they met, and I sometimes wondered whether he may not have left his heart behind somewhere. But he always had a grim task ahead and no time for other things."

Then in the fair evening Faramir and Merry walked in the garden, but Éowyn did not come. But Faramir learned many things about hobbits, and though in his brief acquaintance with them he had seen them frightened, sad, grim, determined, angry, now he began to see what he had guessed at, that they were merry of heart and long of tongue and ready to jest and keen for the enjoyment of life. And it saddened his heart to remember the pale, weary, burdened face of Frodo.

But in the morning, as Faramir came from the Houses, he saw her, as she stood upon the walls; and she was clad all in white, and gleamed in the Sun. And he called to her, and she came down, and they walked on the grass or sat under a green tree together, now in silence, now in speech. And each day after they did likewise.

And Éowyn learned many things of Faramir, Steward of Gondor, for he spoke to her of things he had never said to another, and she learned of Boromir and Denethor and the long line of the Stewards of Gondor. And he also spoke of the days of beauty and glory and peace, and he passed to other things that had always caused his heart to leap. Sometimes Merry joined them, lonely, and sometimes he held long discourse with Éowyn about Théoden. And Éowyn knew that somehow she was changing, but the darkness was still dark within her, and she feared.


	11. The Pyre of Denethor

**The Pyre of Denethor**

**Chapter 11**

On the fourth day since he had met the Lady Éowyn, Faramir learned how his father had died. He had known there was something about it that made others dread to speak of it and closed their lips to him. At his first queries the Warden told him uncomfortably that the Lord Denethor died during the battle but refused to tell him more, saying that it was not his tale to tell. On two nights in this foreboding waiting, Faramir had awakened himself crying out, "Father! Father!" in nightmares about fire and death, and he remembered clearly his wandering dreams as he lay wounded and unconscious. Éowyn could see that his heart had become heavy and troubled as they spoke together, though often his eyes would light on her with a gladness that saddened her.

They were together in a clear early morning under the trees in the garden, and Merry had joined them, glad for company, though he had been often with a lad named Bergil, the son of Beregond and friend to Pippin. Merry had been speaking long of hobbits, telling a tale of Frodo's kinsman Bilbo and his first journey out of the Shire to a far mountain to drive out a dragon. Even Éowyn found herself laughing as she ceased for a while to think on her own troubles, which ever clustered thick around her, and entered into the light-hearted world of hobbits. Then Merry passed on to other hobbits, describing a family called the Sackville-Bagginses and an irascible old hobbit called by all "The Gaffer," and the family of Tooks, and most especially his friend and kinsman Peregrin Took.

"Always careless and ready to jump into anything is old Pippin. I can't tell you how much trouble he got us into when we were but little hobbits." He caught Faramir's amused eye on him and laughed. "Littler than now. If you'd believe it, Pippin and I are bigger than any hobbits ever before, thanks to a nice old gentle-Ent named Treebeard. He was the one who helped us take over Isengard—we were his inspiration, so to speak. That was a grand time! But just after that Gandalf took Pippin away." He sighed. "He's like my younger brother, and it was a wrench to have him go away into the world of the Big Folk without me to take care of him. But I think it did him good. He's grown up without me. He's done things very big and grand for a hobbit! Becoming a Guard of your big Citadel and saving your life, Lord Faramir—"

"Saving my life? How do you mean? I know of no such deed," Faramir said, instantly wondering if this could be the answer to the mystery no one would speak of.

"Why, when your father died. He and Gandalf and Beregond—" He stopped short, staring up into Faramir's face. "Do you know nothing of it, my lord? If so I could cheerfully kick myself. Maybe Gandalf wanted to be the one to tell you when he returns. Oh, my lord, I'm such a fool of a Brandybuck!"

"Cease your self-recriminations and tell me as much as you know of the full tale," Faramir said sternly. "No one in these Houses will speak of it, and I will have the truth from you, Meriadoc!"

Éowyn sat frozen, knowing by the look on Merry's face that it would be a tale of great pain for her friend.

Merry bowed his head, unable to disobey the Steward's command nor the ring in his voice and trouble in his eyes. "I do not know how accurate my story is, my lord, for I witnessed none of it and had most of it from Pippin and part from Bergil, who is a young boy of much curiosity and love for yourself. Pippin told me how you were brought in wounded by Prince Imrahil and laid in the Lord Denethor's chambers, and for days the Steward would not leave your side. He told me, my lord, of how you had parted from your father and how now your father seemed to remember something he had long forgotten as he looked on you, and he would not go out to lead the City in the siege but sat by your bed in much bitterness of heart, it seemed to Pippin. And—" He faltered and stared at the ground.

"Tell me all," Faramir commanded.

"And it seemed that the Lord Denethor's reason was overthrown by grief, maybe, and remorse. Pippin had to describe it to me to get it out of his head, my lord. Gandalf led the defence of the City with Prince Imrahil, and when news came to the Steward that the City was burning, he ordered you brought to a place that Pippin could only speak of with horror—a street I do not wish to see, all lined with tombs and death."

"Rath Dínen," Faramir whispered. "The Silent Street, where the images of my fathers and the kings of old in death reside."

Merry shuddered. "Pippin didn't know whether your father thought you dead or only wanted to die with you, but he ordered the attendants to make a pyre and bring oil and torches, and he laid you and himself upon it."

_I remember that!_ Faramir could not speak, his throat closed with horror and grief.

"But Pippin knew you were alive, and he ran to find Gandalf, but there was some great terror there. I think Gandalf must have been confronting the Lord of the Nazgûl. Would he have defeated the Black Captain, or did Pippin save his life, too, by drawing him away? Pippin said he heard great horns in the distance and a shout of joy from the men around him, and that must have been when we came, Lady Éowyn. And we did Gandalf's job while he hurried away to save your life, my lord. That is how I piece it together, at least. I could be wrong. But Gandalf and Pippin rode back to that place of death, and they met Beregond at the door, and he had held off the servants who came with torches and kept them from their horrible work, and two of them he had killed. Bergil tells me his father was haunted with remorse for it, but he knows he would do it again for you. And Pippin explained that it is death to anyone who leaves his post or spills blood in that place."

The face of Beregond flashed before Faramir's eyes, seeing him as he came into his sickroom with Pippin and Bergil, eyes flowing with tears of joy but his face pale and his hand clutching his son's shoulder. Still he could not speak, though, and he motioned Merry to continue.

"So Gandalf confronted the Steward, whose madness was now very visible, Pippin said, and he lifted you down from the pyre, and Pippin said that suddenly he understood your father's madness, because he revealed a ball of stone he had there with him. Poor Pip had a horrible experience with one of those, and he said he could see how it would drive a wise man to madness. And then—and then—" Again he stopped, glancing up into the face of Faramir, which was streaming with tears. "Oh, my lord, must I tell you all?"

Faramir could not answer, but Éowyn put a gentle hand on Merry's shoulder. "Tell him. It is his father." And in her own heart horror and pity for another had taken hold.

Merry sighed. "The Steward had a knife, and he tried to kill you, my lord, but Beregond stopped him. And then he himself set the pyre on fire and jumped up onto it and broke his staff and laid himself down . . . and that was all. The fire quickly took him. And Bergil told me of a conversation he overheard between Gandalf, Pippin, and Beregond, when he had gone in search of his father, where Gandalf was talking about some Seeing Stones and a great vision of despair given your father by the Enemy, but he didn't understand any of it. Then they took you to the Houses of Healing. And that's all," he said with a sigh of relief. "I wish Pippin had never told me. I'm sure Gandalf could have said it much better and helped your grief."

_My father, my father, how I pity you!_ Faramir wept still. _Is our line doomed to end in madness? For the Ring drove Boromir to a kind of madness, and the lost Seeing Stone destroyed you._

Éowyn and Merry sat silent beside him a long time, and Merry thrust his small hand into Éowyn's cold one, and she gripped it in sympathy. But she looked out over the walls to the East, and the clear warmth of the day seemed to mock her despair and Faramir's grief.

Finally they heard Faramir's quiet voice. "At the last, even in my dream I knew he was dead and I knew that he had loved me. Now I understand many things: how my father was so wise but so blind, if he had one of the last Seeing Stones and it was controlled by the Unnamed one. Alas that a Steward of Gondor should come to such a pass! Perhaps, as seems our doom, the line of the Stewards should come to an end, and perhaps it is good that this should be so. Perhaps many say so. Yet I cannot wish it to end this way. I wish it to continue and regain its lost virtue."

He stood and walked to the wall and spoke in the Elvish tongue which they could not understand a lament for the Stewards of Gondor and for Boromir and for Denethor. He stood there a long moment, as if letting the wind bear the words away whither it would, and then he returned to his place and looked at them, and though his eyes were shadowed with pain, he smiled at them. "At least in this, my grief, you, my friends, have been with me, and for this I thank you." And Éowyn marvelled that in his face there was no despair.


	12. The Shadow Passes

**The Shadow Passes**

**Chapter 12**

And the fifth day came, and Éowyn and Faramir stood now together once more upon the walls of the City and looked out. No tidings had yet come, and all hearts were darkened. The weather, too, was bright no longer. It was cold. A wind that had sprung up in the night was blowing now keenly from the North, and it was rising; but the lands about looked grey and drear.

They were clad in warm raiment and heavy cloaks, and all over the Lady Éowyn wore a great blue mantle of the colour of deep summer-night, and it was set with silver stars about hem and throat. Faramir had sent for this robe and had wrapped it about her; and he thought that she looked fair and queenly indeed as she stood there at his side. The mantle was wrought for his mother, Finduilas of Amroth, who died untimely, and was to him but a memory of loveliness in far days and of his first grief; and her robe seemed to him raiment fitting for the beauty and sadness of Éowyn.

But Éowyn felt no beauty, only chill, and she shivered beneath the starry mantle as she looked northward.

"What do you look for, Éowyn," said Faramir.

"Does not the Black Gate lie yonder? And must he not even now be come thither? It is seven days since he rode away." Ever Aragorn had been growing in her mind, and she thought of him with fear and uncertainty, and feared that he should die and feared that he should come back.

And though she said not Aragorn's name, Faramir's heart both swelled and sank. For he remembered anew that these were the days of the King, whether he should return or no, and he remembered that the Lady Éowyn loved the King. "Seven days," he said. "But think not ill of me, if I say to you: they have bought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Éowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found." But even as he said it, he knew that if the King returned again and desired what he had found, he would give it up in pain and gladness.

"Lose what you have found, lord?" she answered; but she looked at him gravely and her eyes were kind. _I cannot believe that he may take joy in me, for who could in a child of despair?_ "I know not what in these days you have found that you could lose. But come, my friend, let us not speak of it! Let us not speak at all! I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom."

"Yes, we wait for the stroke of doom," said Faramir, though he knew that what he awaited was not what she awaited. For the glorious days of the King that he hoped for would fill her with pain, and the terrible ending he dreaded might almost bring peace of a sort to her. And he suddenly became almost desperate to turn her away from the abyss. But he said no more, and it seemed to them as they stood upon the wall that the wind died, and the light failed, and the Sun was bleared, and all sounds in the City or in the lands about were hushed: neither wind, nor voice, nor bird-call, nor rustle of leaf, nor their own breath could be heard; the very beating of their hearts was stilled. Time halted.

And as they stood so, their hands met and clasped, though they did not know it. And still they waited for they knew not what. Then presently it seemed to them that above the ridges of the distant mountains another vast mountain of darkness rose, towering up like a wave that should engulf the world, and about it lightenings flickered; and then a tremor ran through the earth, and they felt the walls of the City quiver. A sound like a sigh went up from all the lands about them; and their hearts beat suddenly again.

It was then that both realized they stood hand in hand, but neither wondered at it.

"It reminds me of Númenor," said Faramir, and wondered to hear himself speak.

"Of Númenor?" said Éowyn.

"Yes," said Faramir, "of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it."

The chill of fear struck Éowyn's heart. She had lived in darkness so long! How long could it continue? How long could she continue in it before madness or an ignoble death took her? "Then you think that the Darkness is coming? Darkness Unescapable?" And suddenly she drew close to him, as if his very person could shield her, and her fingers tightened in his.

"No," said Faramir, looking into her face, his heart singing. "It was but a picture in my mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Éowyn, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!" And he stooped and kissed her brow.

And so they stood on the walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew, and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out, mingling in the air. And the Shadow departed, and the Sun was unveiled, and light leaped forth; and the waters of Anduin shone like silver, and in all the houses of the City men sang for the joy that welled up in their hearts from what source they could not tell.

And Faramir knew that beyond hope Frodo and Samwise had fulfilled their quest, had passed through Cirith Ungol and entered Mordor and cast the Ring into the fires of Orodruin, and the realm of the Unnamed One—nay, the one no one would now fear to name—of _Sauron_ was at an end. And the days of the King were truly upon them, and he would come again and dwell in the City, and the White Tree would be renewed, and glorious would be the days that he would see. And he as Steward of Gondor would welcome the King, and the Autumn of his life had turned to Spring. And tears flowed down his face as he sang in the Elven-tongue.

But Éowyn wondered and feared the coming days.


	13. The Coming of Spring

**The Coming of Spring**

**Chapter 13**

The days that followed were golden, and Spring and Summer joined and made revel together in the fields of Gondor. Gradually those in the City learned the fates of those they had sent to the Black Gate, and while there was some mourning, joy flowed out as something palpable. Bergil had messages from his father, Merry from Pippin, Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, and Aragorn. Éowyn received joyous tidings from Éomer. Faramir received the full tale of the battle at Morannon from Aragorn, and he rejoiced to hear that the hobbits were alive and safe. Merry, all eagerness, rode away to be with his friends in Cormallen. And Faramir took up, at last, his duties as Steward.

The day after the Shadow had passed, Faramir walked past the White Tree, and after he had bowed his head, he looked up at it and laughed in joy, knowing that it would bloom again. But when he walked into the great hall of the Kings, he became sober again as the Guards in black and silver bowed to him, and he walked down the white expanse to the black seat at the bottom of the steps that led up to the throne. He stopped and gazed up at the throne. It was carven of white stone, and it was under a canopy of marble shaped like a crowned helm; behind it was carved upon the wall and set with gems an image of a tree in flower. Faramir unbuckled his sword, walked up the steps, and, kneeling, laid it before the throne. Then he went back down and took up his father's seat, though not the staff of Stewardship, for that had burned.

He had never expected to take that seat, for Boromir was the eldest and the heir of the Stewardship, but he took up his rôle as if he had been training for it all his life, though it was only for a little while. He was very busy in many matters over the next days, organizing the rebuilding of what had been burned and helping the people reestablish their lives, but his greatest duty was to prepare for the one who should replace him. But though he fell to his work with a good will, he missed the quiet days in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, and the Lady Éowyn by his side, and her hand cold in his, and he saw her seldom.

Éomer had sent word begging Éowyn to come to the Field of Cormallen, but she did not go, and even she scarcely knew why. She was in turmoil and trouble of spirit, and she could get little rest. She could not bear to go and look on the joy of Aragorn and his good friends and companions, knowing she would never have a part in it; she could not bear to leave the City and the friend she had made in it. She did not want to go and she did not want to stay, and while she still gazed eastward, she found herself going to sit under the trees where she had laughed once or twice and walked with her friend, and frequently her eyes turned to the White Tower or down to the streets below when a dark head and tall form walked by to attend to a duty. And the Sun did not warm her, and the wind did not sweep away her darkness. Her face grew pale again, and it seemed that in all the City only she was ailing and sorrowful. And the Warden of the Houses was troubled, and he spoke to Faramir.

Then Faramir came and sought her, and once more they stood up on the wall together; and he said to her: "Éowyn, why do you tarry here, and do not go to the rejoicing in Cormallen beyond Cair Andros, where your brother awaits you?"

She raised her eyes to his. "Do you not know?"

"Two reasons there may be, but which is true I do not know," he said gravely.

"I do not wish to play at riddles. Speak plainer!"

"Then if you will have it so, lady: you do not go, because only your brother called for you, and to look on the Lord Aragorn, Elendil's heir, in his triumph would now bring you no joy." He examined her face and saw that this was true, but he spoke also the reason which he could only hope might be true. "Or because I do not go, and you desire still to be near me." And her eyes said that this also was true, and he spoke softly. "And maybe for both these reasons, and you yourself cannot choose between them." He took her shoulders gently and turned her unwilling toward him. "Éowyn, do you love me, or will you not?"

She had asked herself that very question many times, and wondered whether she was capable of truly loving such a man as he deserved. Then she thought about how he had asked the question: _"Or will you not?" Am I denying him my love wilfully?_ The expression in his eyes was grave, tender, compassionate, understanding, and she remembered wondering once whether Gríma Wormtongue was the only one who could understand her, whether she had fallen that far. She said, troubled, "I wished to be loved by another. But I desire no man's pity."

"That I know," he answered, still softly, still looking down into her face until she dropped her eyes. "You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a great captain may to a young soldier he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest that now is. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle. Look at me, Éowyn!"

And Éowyn looked at Faramir long and steadily, as if his grey gaze gave her courage; and Faramir said: "Do not scorn pity when it is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell. And I love you. Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you." He stopped and looked searchingly at her. Then he said in almost a whisper, "Éowyn, do you not love me?"

And she looked back at him, and there in his grey eyes was everything she had ever wanted without knowing it. Then the heart of Éowyn changed, or else at last she understood it. And suddenly her Winter passed, and the Sun shone on her. The shuttered windows to her soul were thrown open and the clean wind rushed in, and the hard stone in her breast melted. Shadows and pain left her eyes; colour came to her cheeks and her mind, and the foul influence of Wormtongue fled forever. Her eyes were the clear grey of Spring rain that makes the earth green and her hair was like golden Summer sunshine. And the flood of joy was for a moment too deep for smiling.

"I stand in Minas Arnor, the Tower of the Sun," she said; "and behold! the Shadow has departed. I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren." And again she looked at Faramir. "No longer do I desire to be a queen," she said, and then her lips spread in a slow smile that lit her heart and danced in her eyes.

And Faramir knew that this was the woman Éowyn Éomund's daughter was supposed to be, not the desperately valiant shieldmaiden but the laughing lady as courageous in living as in trying to die, and he laughed merrily. "That is well," he said, "for I am not a king. Yet I will wed the White Lady of Rohan, if it be her will. And if she will, then let us cross the River and in happier days let us dwell in fair Ithilien, and there make a garden. All things will grow with joy there, if the White Lady comes."

"Then must I leave my own people, man of Gondor?" she asked. "And would you have your proud folk say of you: 'There goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Númenor to chose?'" And her eyes laughed to his.

"I would," said Faramir. And he took her in his arms and kissed her under the sunlit sky, and he cared not that they stood high upon the walls in the sight of many. And many indeed saw them and the light that shone about them as they came down from the walls and went hand in hand to the Houses of Healing.

And to the Warden of the Houses Faramir said: "Here is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, and now she is healed." And the words of Samwise echoed in his mind: _"You showed your quality: the very highest."_

And the Warden said: "Then I release her from my charge and bid her farewell, and may she suffer never hurt nor sickness again. I command her to the care of the Steward of the City, until her brother returns."

But Éowyn said: "Yet now that I have leave to depart, I would remain. For this House has become to me of all dwellings the most blessed." And she remained until King Éomer came.


	14. The Steward and the King

**The Steward and the King**

**Chapter 14**

In the days that followed, Éowyn and Faramir were ever together, though Faramir was kept very busy at his duties, and everything Éowyn saw taught her, and it seemed to Faramir that she changed before his eyes, becoming thoughtful and merry and growing in wisdom. She begged of him again the story of his brother and father and himself, and his virtue and steadiness shamed her. For she remembered the grave charge Théoden had laid on her to lead his people while he and Éomer rode to war, and it occurred to her for the first time to wonder what had happened to them when she abandoned them. Even as the host of Rohan had ridden away, more bands of orcs had crossed the borders and attacked the outlying Rohirrim towns. Eventually she received word that help had come to Rohan from another source, but still she wondered. She and Meriadoc had saved many people by killing the Lord of the Nazgûl, but at what price to her people? She had found healing and love and peace, but she had forsaken her duty and her people. What would have happened to her if she had stayed? Would she ever have met Faramir? She never learned the answers to her questions, but from Faramir she learned steadfastness and devotion to something beyond herself. For he told her the full tale of the line of the Kings, of Elendil and his sons Anárion and Isildur, of the Ring of Power, the defeat of Sauron, the ending of the line of Anárion and the beginning of the Stewardship, the long hope that the Kings would return, and finally the end of the tale of the Ring and of the hobbits' great part in it.

"And soon," he said, his eyes shining, "the King will come into this City to take his throne at long last."

"And Aragorn is Isildur's heir." She had known that Aragorn was heir to the throne of Gondor, but she had not fully understood the long centuries of longing that he would come to fulfill.

"He is." Faramir looked gravely upon her. "Will you regret anything when you see him ride into the City?"

Éowyn understood what he was asking. When she saw the King riding glorious and mighty after victory, would she regret promises made to a Steward? "I will regret many things," she said quietly. "I will regret that I allowed Wormtongue's poison to enter my heart, that I viewed death as better than life, that I gave good and noble men such grief in heart. But will I regret that at the last I chose the Steward over the King?" Grey eyes met grey eyes, and she smiled and intertwined her fingers with his. "No; rather I rejoice that I have turned my eyes from his distant majesty to your gentleness and wisdom that are so near and reachable."

Faramir's faint anxiety was eased, and he pressed a kiss to her temple.

At last an evening came when from the walls the pavilions could be seen upon the field, and all night lights were burning as men watched for the dawn. Faramir did not sleep that night but sat upon the walls and gazed down into the fields, and long before dawn Éowyn joined him and sat silently beside him with her hand in his. The world was dark all around and the silver stars seemed to shine with greater brilliance in a kind of celestial joy. Then, behind the mountains to the East which would no longer hold terror for the people of Middle-earth, the palest of lights glimmered, and slowly it grew while the sky behind to the West grew bluer and bluer until it seemed that none could ever have seen such a blue before. And the Sun leaped into the sky with a visible eagerness, pouring out her violet and pink and red and golden light upon the land. Éowyn's hair glowed like living gold, and Faramir's grey eyes became blue like water flowing. Then all the bells rang, and all the banners broke and flowed in the wind that blew over them with a life of its own; and upon the White Tower of the citadel the standard of the Stewards, bright argent like snow in the sun, bearing no charge nor device, was raised over Gondor for the last time.

Then Faramir and Éowyn went down to the destroyed Gateway of the City in which no gates had been set up again but had a barrier set across the entrance, and Faramir wore the black and silver of Gondor and bore with him an ancient rod from the treasuries, and Éowyn was clad in white and green flowing garments and her hair was unbound and glistened in the Sun. There they met Húrin Warden of the Keys and other captains of Gondor, and Elfhelm the Marshal and many knights of the Mark, and Elfhelm saw the joy on Éowyn's face and was rejoiced in his pure love for her. But it was the face of Faramir that all noted and marked, for it was pale and serious but the grey eyes shone like stars, and there was a greater nobility and beauty about him than any had yet seen in him.

Now the Captains of the West led their host towards the City, and folk saw them advance in line upon line, flashing and glinting in the sunrise and rippling like silver. And so they came before the Gateway and halted a furlong from the walls, and a great press of fair people of Gondor in raiment of many colours and garlands of flowers had gathered on either side of the Gate, and before the barrier stood men at arms in silver and black with long swords drawn. So now there was a wide space before the walls of Minas Tirith, and it was hemmed in upon all sides by the knights and soldiers of Gondor and of Rohan, and by the people of the City and of all parts of the land. And from where she stood, Éowyn could see young Bergil elbowing his way forward and searching out with a bright grin his father and his friend.

A hush fell upon all as out from the host stepped the Dúnedain in silver and grey; and before them came walking slow the Lord Aragorn. He was clad in black mail girt with silver, and he wore a long mantle of pure white clasped at the throat with a great jewel of green that shone from afar; but his head was bare save for a star upon his forehead bound by a slender fillet of silver, and Faramir looked upon it with awe and wonder. With him were four small figures that gladdened the hearts of Faramir and Éowyn, and Prince Imrahil, and Gandalf robed all in white, and Éomer of Rohan. And Éomer searched out his sister, and his eyes met hers with anxiety, and he saw that she was changed from stone to living flesh and her eyes were clear and shining, and she glanced up at the tall man in black and silver beside her with a light in her eyes. And though he did not know the full tale, he read much in that glance, and his heart was eased and filled with joy.

Then a single trumpet rang, golden and silver in the wind, and a dead silence followed. Then forth from the Gate went Faramir with Húrin of the Keys, and no others, save that behind them walked four men in the high helms and armour of the Citadel, and they bore a great casket of black _lebethron_ bound with silver.

Faramir met Aragorn in the midst of those there assembled, and he looked for a moment on his face with great gladness of heart, and he knelt and said: "The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office." And he held out the white rod; but Aragorn took the rod and gave it back, saying: "That office is not ended, and it shall be thine and thy heirs' as long as my line shall last." And he too had seen Éowyn's look and was glad. "Do now thy office!"

Then Faramir stood up, and though his voice was clear and strong, tears ran unashamed down his cheeks. "Men of Gondor, hear now the Steward of this Realm! Behold! one has come to claim the kingship again at last. Here is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Númenor. Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?"

And all the host and all the people cried _yea_ with one voice.

Then Faramir spoke again. "Men of Gondor, the loremasters tell that it was the custom of old that the king should receive the crown from his father ere he died; or if it might not be, that he should go alone and take it from the hands of his father in the tomb where he was laid. But since things must now be done otherwise, using the authority of the Steward, I have today brought hither from Rath Dínen the crown of Eärnur the last king, whose days passed in the time of our longfathers of old."

Then the guards stepped forward, and Faramir opened the casket, and he took from it and held up an ancient crown with hands that trembled. It was shaped like the helms of the Guards of the Citadel, high-crowned, with long cheek-guards close fitting to the face, but it was loftier, and it was all white, and the wings at either side were wrought of pearl and silver in the likeness of the wings of a sea-bird, for it was the emblem of the kings who came over the Sea; and seven gems of adamant were set in the circlet, and upon its summit was set a single jewel the light of which went up like a flame.

Then Aragorn took the crown and held it up and said:

_Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!_

And those were the words that Elendil spoke when he came up out of the Sea on the wings of the wind: "Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs until the ending of the world."

Then to the wonder of many Aragorn did not put the crown upon his head, but gave it back to Faramir, and said: "By the labour and valour of many I have come into my inheritance. In token of this I would have the Ringbearer bring the crown to me, and let Mithrandir set it upon my head, if he will, for he has been the mover of all that has been accomplished, and this is his victory."

Then Frodo came forward, and as Faramir put the crown into his small hands, he saw that his face was free of burden and his eyes held only gladness and awe, and his heart was rejoiced, but he saw also that a finger was gone from his right hand, and he wondered. But Frodo bore the crown to Mithrandir; and Aragorn knelt, and Mithrandir set the White Crown upon his head, and said:

"Now come the days of the King, and may they be blessed while the thrones of the Valar endure!"

But when Aragon arose all that beheld him gazed in silence, for it seemed to them that he was revealed to them now for the first time. Tall as the sea-kings of old, he stood above all that were near; ancient of days he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him. And then, with a heart breaking with joy, Faramir cried:

"Behold the King!"

* * *

Joyous was the greeting of Éowyn and Éomer, and all their stories were told, and she led him by the hand to Faramir, and the two men examined each other, and each loved and honoured the other. But Faramir bowed and said, "Hail, King of the Mark! I am humbled in your presence, for I would ask of you the noblest and loveliest thing Rohan may offer."

But Éomer clasped his hand and said, "Steward of Gondor, your love has returned my sister to fullness of health as even the healing hands of the King could not, and for that alone she would be yours if you were the lowest footsoldier in this City." And he withdrew his hand from Faramir's and placed his sister's hand in the hand of the Steward, and her hand was no longer cold but warm with life.

And Éowyn and Faramir met the hobbits again, and Merry said to Éowyn, "You're different, my lady."

She laughed, and the sound was like the golden wind. "No longer do I desire death, Master Meriadoc, for you see my healing was only waiting for me to see it." She knelt and took his hand and said, "At last I can thank you with gratitude for my life." And he blushed.

Éomer's hand fell on his shoulder, and he jumped. "Master Holbytla," said the King of the Mark, "for the preserving of my sister and the love and service you bore Théoden King, I give you thanks and honour." And with sword to helm he saluted him.

Faramir said to Pippin, "And I also owe you my life, Peregrin Took. Your name will be held in high honour in my home as long as my line lasts." Then he came to Frodo and Samwise, and he knelt before them with bowed head. "Long has it seemed since we met, and dark the days for all of us, but to you belong the thanks for the free wind and golden Sun we now feel."

"Oh, please, my lord!" cried Frodo, "thanks we have had and plenty for simple hobbits from the Great of the land."

"My dear hobbits, you _are_ the Great of the land. But if you would, I would now claim you my friends, and be greatly honoured by it."

"With a right good will, sir!" said Samwise stoutly, and they all laughed.

* * *

In the days that followed, Faramir sat in gladness on the black seat below the great white throne on which the King now sat and pronounced his judgments. And embassies came from many lands and peoples, from the East and from the South, and from the borders of Mirkwood, and from Dunland in the West. And there were brought before him many to receive his praise and reward for their valour; and last the Captain of the Guard brought to him Beregond to be judged, for he had spilled blood in Rath Dínen, and Faramir wondered very much what the King would do to the man who had saved the Steward's life.

And the King said to Beregond: "Beregond, by your sword blood was spilled in the Hallows, where that is forbidden. Also you left your post without leave of Lord or of Captain. For these things of old, death was the penalty. Now therefore I must pronounce your doom.

"All penalty is remitted for your valour in battle, and still more because all that you did was for the love of the Lord Faramir. Nonetheless, you must leave the Guard of the Citadel, and you must go forth from the City of Minas Tirith."

Then the blood left Beregond's face, and he was stricken to the heart and bowed his head, and Faramir was filled with pity and sadness. But he glanced up at the King and saw that mirth was in his eyes. The King said:

"So it must be, for you are appointed to the White Company, the Guard of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, and you shall be its captain and dwell in Emyn Arnen in honour and peace, and in the service of him for whom you risked all."

And Faramir stared up at the King, wondering if he had been hearing him properly. And the King said, smiling down at him, "Faramir, Steward of Gondor, stand before me." So he went up the steps and stood before the King, and Elessar said, "I give you the land of Ithilien to be your princedom and that of your heirs as long as Gondor stands. And so that you may be near and so that our friendship may continue, I bid you to dwell in the hills of Emyn Arnen within sight of the City, for Minas Ithil in Morgul-vale shall be utterly destroyed, and though it may in time come to be made clean, no man may dwell there for many long years." And he put his hands on Faramir's shoulders and kissed his forehead after the manner of their people, and Faramir thought on the fair hills and trees of Ithilien where his heart had ever had its home and knew that it would be restored to the beauty it had once had and more, and in joy he knelt and kissed the King's hand. As he stood and went down to resume his seat, he caught Éowyn's eye, who stood near his seat in the hall in a place of honour, and she saw that if it were possible, his joy had been made greater, and she longed to see this land of Ithilien.

And last of all Aragorn greeted Éomer of Rohan, and they embraced, and Aragorn said: "Between us there can be no word of giving or taking, nor of reward; for we are brethren. In happy hour did Eorl ride from the North, and never has any league of peoples been more blessed, so that neither has ever failed the other, nor shall fail. Now, as you know, we have laid Théoden the Renowned in a tomb in the Hallows, and there he shall lie forever among the Kings of Gondor, if you will. Or if you desire it, we will come to Rohan and bring him back to rest with his own people."

And Éomer answered: "Since the day when you rose before me out of the green grass of the downs I have loved you, and that love shall not fail. But now I must depart for a while to my own realm, where there is much to heal and set in order. But as for the Fallen, when all is made ready we will return for him; but here let him sleep a while."

Éowyn lowered her eyes and pondered what she must do. Could she ride back to the home and people she had abandoned? Could her hands be part of the healing of Rohan? She stepped to Faramir's side and said, "Now I must go back to my own land and look on it once again, and help my brother in his labour; but when one whom I long loved as father is laid at last to rest, I will return."

And he took her in his arms there before them all and kissed her, and though loath he was to let her go from him, he stood at the Gate when the Riders of Rohan had made ready and lifted his hand to her as she rode away amid the crowds of people who gathered to do them honour and praise them. They were parted three months.


	15. To Rebuild and Renew

**To Rebuild and Renew**

**Chapter 15**

Éowyn rode beside her brother silently through the throngs of people that stretched from the Gate of Minas Tirith to the walls of the Pelennor, and she had neither ears nor eyes for the admiration and honour she had so long desired, but she rode looking backward until the still form of Faramir, hand outstretched, was lost from her view, and his quiet "Fare well, White Lady" was all she heard for a long while.

When they had left the City far behind, Éomer reached out from Firefoot beside her and took her hand. "My heart is rejoiced for you, my sister, in your new happiness," he said in their own language.

Tears shone silver in her eyes as she smiled. "I have not been cause for much rejoicing with you, have I, Éomer?"

"Oh, Éowyn, dark have been all our days, and there has been little rejoicing among us for any reason. But had all been light and beauty as is now and you alone were in grief and thus caused my own heart to be heavy in sorrow amid the joy of all others, still I would rather be with you in your sorrow than without you in great gladness." He lifted her hand and kissed it as a tear trickled down her cheek and she laughed. "Now tell me, Éowyn, of Faramir of Gondor."

So they filled the long days of riding with joyous conversation until they came to the wide, grassy plains of Rohan, and the Sun shone warm all around and the wind flowed from the mountains, and Éowyn rejoiced to see her land again and feel the wind that was the life of her people. And they rode to Edoras and saw the Golden Hall shining under the blue sky and the banner of Rohan flying over it, and she realized that her brother was king.

Many of the tall, fair people of Rohan stood there about the gates of the city of Edoras, and they welcomed their King and Lady and Riders with glad cries and singing. And all faces were filled with love for the valiant Lady Éowyn and no sign of resentment for her abandonment of them, and her heart was eased.

Dismounting before the Golden Hall, Éomer took Éowyn's hand and mounted the steps and entered the hall, and they halted before the throne where last Théoden had sat. Éomer bowed his head, but he said, "We will not mourn now, for we have much work to do." But he did not sit on the throne, for Théoden was not yet laid to rest.

For the next months there was much work throughout Rohan, and Éomer rode to many towns and villages across the land to help and encourage the people in rebuilding their lives, but Éowyn stayed at Edoras and led the work there. Meduseld was put to rights as it had not been in many long months when Wormtongue had been there, and it was filled with air and light and the doors were always thrown open to the wind. The ancient wall hangings were restored to glowing colour, and Éowyn and her maidens set about weaving the tale of Théoden King the Renowned and Éomer King the Fell. And Éowyn herself prepared the burial mound for Théoden King. And in the midst of all this women's work she found joy and fulfillment as she never had before and realized the beauty and honour of being a woman. And sometimes in the fair mornings she would rise in the dark and ride Windfola out onto the Plains and watch as the Sun rose and feel the wind in her hair and rejoice in strength and health and life. But at night when the white stars came out in the pale evening she would look South and know Faramir saw those same stars and thought of her.

One day in the early Summer, Éowyn and Éomer stood upon the platform of Meduseld and saw a host of the fairest folk in all the land coming from the North to Edoras. As they came up the long hill, it could be seen that they were a great company of Elves, led by Elladan and Elrohir, who had ridden with Éomer to Edoras and set out from there not long ago. The two sons of Elrond carried a banner of silver and behind them was a tall Elf in flowing white whose hair shimmered gold under the Sun, riding a great white horse, and his face was beautiful and glad, and beside him was a dark-haired Elf whose face was full of wisdom and who rode a horse as grey as the horses of the Rohirrim. After them came two whom Éowyn knew must be a King and Queen among the Elven-kind. Taller and graver and more beautiful than the measure of Men were they and even than their own kindred, and the Lord had hair of shining silver and the Lady of deep gold, and no sign of age was upon them save in their eyes, which were wells of deep memory. With them rode many fair folk, grey-cloaked with white gems in their hair, and last of all were two who rode together, as a father and daughter, and they too were great among their kind and among all the peoples of Middle-earth. The father had a face neither old nor young, both glad and sorrowful, and his hair was dark as the shadows of twilight and his eyes were grey as a clear evening. The daughter was as like him as if he were made in the form of womanhood, with the light of stars in her grey eyes, and she was lovely beyond measure, and thought and knowledge were in her glance. And soon Éowyn came to know that these were Glorfindel and Erestor of Rivendell, and Celeborn and Galadriel and the folk of Lórien, and the Lord Elrond of Rivendell with his daughter Arwen, and in their wondrous company Éowyn felt herself small and young and graceless.

Two days the fair company spent in Edoras, and on the second day Arwen rode with Éowyn to watch the sunrise. As the sky filled with light, they were silent and each thought her own thoughts, but on the slow ride back to Meduseld Arwen began to ask gentle, probing questions about all that had happened in the Great War, but ever the questions led back to Aragorn. And Éowyn remembered that Arwen was of Rivendell, and she remembered that Aragorn had once said to her: _"Were I to go where my heart dwells, far in the North I would now be wandering in the fair valley of Rivendell."_ And she asked no questions of the beautiful lady, but she knew why Aragorn had never looked on her with more than kindness and pity. And she was glad when she looked in the starry eyes of the Elf which seemed to see her heart and all she had once felt and all she now felt and showed in their turn love and understanding.

Soon the fair company was gone again, riding to Gondor, and Meduseld seemed made yet more lovely and noble by the lingering light they left. Then after days that seemed both swift and slow, Éomer made ready to ride to Minas Tirith.

"And will you not come, Éowyn?" he asked. "For the Lord Faramir will delight at your coming and the King of Gondor will gladly welcome you and the Holbytla Meriadoc will have joy at your presence."

"No," she responded softly. "For it will not be long before they come to Edoras and much must be prepared for them in the Golden Hall, and the mound of the king must have its last preparations. And I am content to remain for this work and see you ride away to the land I will one day make my home."

So Éomer smiled and rode away with an éored of the fairest knights of the Mark, and Éowyn returned to the house she had once seen as a prison and was no longer.

* * *

The days that passed in Gondor were fair and beautiful, and in the City there was labour of many willing hands to rebuild and renew and to remove all scars of war and the memory of the darkness. And Faramir came to know Aragorn as man and friend as well as King, and great was the love between them, but it seemed to Faramir that Aragorn was filled with an anticipation for something he would not describe but said only that he had looked for it all the days of his manhood. The hobbits stayed long in the City in a house with their friends Legolas and Gimli and Mithrandir with them. And Faramir went often to Ithilien to oversee work there and start the preparations for a home for himself and Éowyn in the fair green slopes of Emyn Arnen.

But amid the joy and work of the days, the time went far too slowly for Faramir. When night spread itself across the sky and white stars were revealed in its inky depths, he would sit upon the walls of the City and think and remember and wish for Éowyn by his side. On one afternoon as he sat deep in thought, he was startled by a voice beside him, for he had not heard footsteps. He turned to see the four hobbits and the King standing beside him.

"My Lord Faramir," said Frodo, "you told us that if ever beyond hope we should return to these lands, we would sit with you by a wall in the sun and tell our tales and laugh at old griefs." He smiled up at Faramir. "Here you are by a wall and the sun is shining and here we are."

"And I think that you have long wanted to know the full tale of Boromir," Aragorn said.

They sat beside him, and the tales were told. First Frodo, with a few interjections by Samwise and Aragorn, told the tale of Sméagol and the finding of the Ring of Power and how it came to Bilbo and then to him, and he told all that had happened to him since he had it. And Faramir sat a long time in silence, contemplating the strange fortunes of the world. Then he told them fully the bitter story of Denethor and Finduilas his parents, and Boromir his brother, and himself, and many hurts were fully healed in this final retelling. And Frodo, seeing the peace in his eyes, found it easier to tell his difficult side of the story of Boromir and the Ring.

"He plainly wanted it the whole time, but at first he bowed to the decision of the Council that it must be destroyed. He had spoken of his country's great need for such a weapon, but he never saw its full power for evil." He gave Faramir a searching look. "I think you did, sir. But it was after Lothlórien that he began to allow it to consume him. Sam told you, sir, if you remember, that the land and the Lady are perilous for those who bring their own peril, and I think that Boromir was unable to stand up to the choice he knew he had. He could let the Ring be destroyed, or he could, from what you've told me, bring his father a mighty gift. It sounds simple. When we stopped at Parth Galen, he followed me into the hills and offered me counsel, and I thought him kind but my heart mistrusted him, and I refused to show him the Ring, and he began describing what he would do with it, if it were his. The Men of Gondor would be able to control it and would not use it for evil, and he himself would be great among Men and become a mighty and wise king. And he became wroth when I would not give it to him and sprang at me with a changed face, and my only escape was to put on the Ring and flee. To my sorrow, my last sight of him was of the madness in his eyes. I did not know until we met you that he was dead." He bowed his head.

But Pippin put his hand on Faramir's arm. "But my lord, he recovered and ran to our aide when we needed it. We did not know then what had passed between him and Frodo, but Merry and I now think he made his atonement for it. Orcs came upon us and wanted rather to capture us than to kill us, and Boromir came leaping through the trees. He slew many of the orcs and the rest fled, but more came on while he winded his great horn until the woods rang, and they shot many arrows at him while he still fought. The last I saw he was leaning against a tree plucking out an arrow."

"He gave his life for us," said Merry quietly, "he a great Man among other Men. He made us significant when we had been but a load of baggage along the way."

"I heard his horn," Aragorn took up the tale, "and came running, but already the hobbits were gone, and Boromir was pierced with many black arrows, surrounded by his fallen foes. He made full confession to me, and he entreated me to come to this City and save his people. He believed he had failed."

"Then you said to him, _'No! You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory,'_ and thus he died in peace," Faramir interjected.

Aragorn stared at him. "How do you know this? For I have told it to no one."

"I saw it in a dream," said Faramir, wondering. "Since the dreams came to me with the riddle of the Sword that was Broken and Isildur's Bane, many strange things have happened to me, and this is not least among them. But now I know all the tale and all the riddles are made clear but the greatest, and that is: what is it that directs all that is done in this Middle-earth? For the Elves and our fathers speak of the Valar, and beyond that is even a distant hint of Ilúvatar. It is clear to me that some Hand has been in all the strange paradoxes of these tales."

To this they all agreed.

Thereafter Faramir sought out Merry frequently, and both would speak much of the fair Éowyn and the adventure of knowing her.

One day when Faramir had been some days in Ithilien and had now just ridden back to the City, a summons came to him from the King, and he went up to the Citadel. And there he saw a great sight. Elessar stood with Mithrandir beside the withered White Tree, and in his hand he held a sapling which was no more than three foot high, and it had young leaves long and shapely, dark above and silver beneath, and upon its slender crown it bore one small cluster of flowers whose white petals shone like sunlit snow. Faramir whispered, "The White Tree."

The King said, "Here is another sign of the invisible Hand that guides our days, for I found it in a hidden and ancient hallow, not yet seven years old, and it was sprung from a fruit of the White Tree of Elder Days. Come, Faramir; lend me aid."

And they uprooted the withered tree with reverence; and they did not burn it, but laid it to rest in silence in Rath Dínen. And Aragorn planted the new tree in the court by the fountain, and swiftly and gladly it began to grow; and when the month of June entered in it was laden with blossom.

"The sign has been given," said Aragorn, "and the day is not far off." And Faramir did not understand his meaning, but he saw that there was deep joy on his face.

It was the day before Midsummer when a riding of fair folk out of the North drew near to the walls of the Pelennor. And the King said: "At last they have come. Let all in the City be made ready!"

So, though no one knew why, the whole City prepared for a great celebration with bright garments and garlands of flowers and bells and singing.

Upon the very Eve of Midsummer, when the sky was blue as sapphire and white stars opened in the East, but the West was still golden, and the air was cool and fragrant, the company of all the greatest Elven-folk in all Middle-earth came down the North-way to the gates of Minas Tirith. And last in the company was a lady so lovely to behold, with stars on her brow and a sweet fragrance about her, that wonder overcame Faramir as he stood behind the King to welcome the company. He saw her glance light on Elessar and a smile of quiet delight cross her face, and the joy in the King's face illuminated his beauty until he seemed himself to be one of the Elven-folk. And Elessar whispered, _"Arwen vanimelda,"_ but he said aloud, _"Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo,"_ with a glance up to bright Eärendil. They all alighted, and the great lord with the lady brought to the King the great sceptre he carried, and Faramir knew it was the scepter of Annúminas, Tower of the West, and this must be the Elven lord Elrond of Rivendell, and the Lady Arwen was his daughter. And Elrond laid the hand of his daughter in the hand of the King, and together they went up into the High City, and all the stars flowered in the sky. And Aragorn the King Elessar wedded Arwen Undómiel in the City of the Kings upon the day of Midsummer.

It was but a few weeks later that Éomer of Rohan came riding to the City and a great and fair company made ready to ride north from the City. Then the kings of Gondor and Rohan went to the Hallows and they came to the tombs in Rath Dínen, and they bore away King Théoden upon a golden bier, and passed through the City in silence. Then they laid the bier upon a great wain with Riders of Rohan all about it and his banner borne before; and Meriadoc being Théoden's esquire rode upon the wain and kept the arms of the king.

For the other Companions steeds were furnished according to their stature; and Frodo and Samwise rode at Aragorn's side, and Mithrandir rode upon Shadowfax, and Pippin rode with the knights of Gondor; and Legolas and Gimli as ever rode together upon Arod. In that riding also went Queen Arwen, and Celeborn and Galadriel with their folk, and Elrond and his sons; and the princes of Dol Amroth and Ithilien. And Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, rode a great grey steed of Rohan, for Éomer had brought it to him and said, "My sister sends you this mount and begs that you accept it as a gift from her who had been shieldmaiden of Rohan. This was Gúthwind, Wind of Battle, a foal of Windfola, raised and trained by Théodred, our fallen cousin, but now he shall be Hasuwine, Grey-Friend." And Faramir had mounted the steed and it obeyed his lightest command. And Beregond rode behind him as Captain of the Guard of Ithilien. Never had any king of the Mark such company upon the road as went with Théoden Thengel's son to the land of his home.


	16. Singing in the Sun

**Singing in the Sun**

**Chapter 16**

Éowyn wove a garland of Simbelmynë, the small white flowers like stars called evermind in the Common Tongue that blossomed in all the season of the year upon the great burial barrows of the Kings of the Mark, and she looked South and East. And she saw far away the great company of riders passing through the green fields and coming to Edoras, so she put away the funeral garland and called for all to be in readiness, and she stood upon the platform of the Golden Hall in the winds and sun to await their coming. Thus Faramir saw her as Aragorn had first seen her, golden as the sun and white as snow, in her place before the house.

She greeted them with fair words, and her eyes went to Aragorn as he came before her with Arwen by his side, and she smiled and welcomed them. She stood by the great doors as all went past her into the hall, but Faramir stood aside until all had entered and Éomer stood before them giving them words of welcome, and then he went to her side. She smiled up at him and slipped her hand in his.

"Hail White Lady," he said quietly, as if it had been just the moment before that he had said farewell.

"Hail Steward of Gondor," she responded.

He sighed then and drew her into his arms and kissed her, and they went together into the hall. But the bier of Théoden was laid in his chambers.

After three days the Men of the Mark prepared the funeral of Théoden. He was laid upon a bier of great shields and ash spears, and Éomer and the Marshals of Rohan bore him from the City between two lines of the Rohirrim to the barrow mounds, and they came to the house of stone Éowyn had prepared. She stood before it all in white with the garland of white evermind on her golden head and her Riders around her, and they took the bier of the king from the Marshals and laid it within with his arms and many other fair things that he had possessed, and last she laid the garland on his breast and went out. Then over him was raised a great mound, covered with green turves of grass and of white evermind. And now there were eight mounds on the east-side of the Barrowfield.

Then the Riders of the King's House upon white horses rode round about the barrow and sang together a song of Théoden Thengel's' son that Gléowine his minstrel made, and he made no other song after. The slow voices of the Riders stirred the hearts even of those who did not know the speech of that people; but the words of the song brought a light to the eyes of the folk of the Mark as they heard again afar the thunder of the hooves of the north and the voice of Eorl crying above the battle upon the Field of Celebrant; and the tale of the kings rolled on, and the horn of Helm was loud in the mountains, until the Darkness came and King Théoden arose and rode through the Shadow to the fire, and died in splendour, even as the Sun, returning beyond hope, gleamed upon Mindolluin in the morning.

_Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day's rising_

_he rode singing in the sun, sword unsheathing._

_Hope he rekindled, and in hope ended;_

_over death, over dread, over doom lifted_

_out of loss, out of life, until long glory._

And for the last time Éowyn wept for the king she had loved as father, but her heart held only the sweetness of sorrow and not the bitter sting. But Meriadoc, the king's esquire, stood at the foot of the mound, and he wept, and when the song was ended he arose and cried:

"Théoden King, Théoden King! Farewell! As a father you were to me, for a little while. Farewell!"

When the burial was over and the weeping of women was stilled, and Théoden was left at last alone in his barrow, then folk gathered to the Golden Hall for the highest feast that it had known since the days of its building and put away sorrow; for Théoden had lived to full years and ended in honour no less than the greatest of his sires. And when the time came that in the custom of the Mark they should drink to the memory of the kings, Éowyn Lady of Rohan came forth, and she bore a filled cup to Éomer.

Then a minstrel and loremaster stood up and named all the names of the Lords of the Mark in their order: Eorl the young; and Brego builder of the Hall; and Aldor brother of Baldor the hapless; and Fréa, and Fréawine, and Goldwine, and Déor, and Gram; and Helm who lay hid in Helm's Deep when the Mark was overrun; and so ended the nine mounds of the west-side, for in that time the line was broken, and after came the mounds of the east-side: Fréalaf, Helm's sister-son, and Léofa, and Walda, and Folca, and Folcwine, and Fengel, and Thengel, and Théoden the latest. And when Théoden was named Éomer drained the cup. Then Éowyn bade those that served to fill the cups, and all there assembled rose and drank to the new king, crying: "Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!" And he sat in the throne of the Kings of the Mark.

At last when the feast drew to an end, Éomer arose and said: "Now this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King; but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he would not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn my sister. Hear then all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as have never before been gathered in this hall! Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, asks that Éowyn Lady of Rohan should be his wife, and she grants it full willing. Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all." And gladness was in his clear voice.

And Faramir and Éowyn stood forth and set hand in hand; and all there drank to them and were glad. "Thus," said Éomer, "is the friendship of the Mark and of Gondor bound with a new bond, and the more do I rejoice!"

Aragorn laughed. "No niggard are you, Éomer, to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm!"

Éowyn remembered the concern and pain he had borne for her when he knew she loved him, and she looked in his eyes and said, "Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!"

And he answered: "I have wished thee joy ever since first I saw thee. It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss."

When the feast was over, those who were to go took leave of King Éomer. Aragorn and his knights, and the people of Lórien and Rivendell, made ready to ride; but Faramir and Imrahil remained at Edoras; and Arwen Evenstar remained also.

At the last before the guests set out Éomer and Éowyn came to Meriadoc, and they said, much sadness at parting in their voices: "Farewell now, Meriadoc of the Shire and Holdwine of the Mark! Ride to good fortune, and ride back soon to our welcome!"

And Éomer said: "Kings of old would have laden you with gifts that a wain could not bear for your deeds upon the fields of Mundburg; and yet you will take naught, you say, but the arms that were given to you. This I suffer, for indeed I have no gift that is worthy; but my sister begs you to receive this small thing, as a memorial of Dernhelm and of the horns of the Mark at the coming of the morning."

Then Éowyn gave to Meriadoc an ancient horn, small but cunningly wrought all of fair silver with a baldric of green; and wrights had engraven upon it swift horsemen riding in a line that wound about it from the tip of the mouth; and there were set runes of great virtue.

"This is an heirloom of our house," said Éowyn. "It was made by the Dwarves, and came from the hoard of Scatha the Worm. Eorl the Young brought it from the North. He that blows it at need shall set fear in the hearts of his enemies and joy in the hearts of his friends, and they shall hear him and come to him."

Meriadoc took the horn and kissed Éowyn's hand; and they embraced him, and there were tears in all their eyes.

And Faramir said to Frodo and Samwise, "Ringbearers, I would have you return again to Gondor and visit me in the fair land of Ithilien. Strange and wondrous have been all the adventures in these times but yours most greatly, and that I have had a part in it I am humbled and glad. Do not forsake our friendship, but return again!" And again, as they remembered from those dark days that seemed so long ago, he kissed them on the foreheads and set them on their ponies himself.

Then he came to Pippin, and he looked down on him silently for a moment. The hobbit's eyes were full of tears. "My preserver and my friend," Faramir said finally, "go with the grace of the Hand that guides our steps." And he embraced him and set him on his pony and bade farewell to Merry.

Now the guests were ready, and they drank the stirrup-cup, and with great praise and friendship they rode away. And so they parted for that time. And Éomer, Éowyn, Faramir, Imrahil, and Arwen went back into the hall.

Though the parting left them downcast, good days were upon them. The hearts of the Men of Gondor had ever inclined to their valiant brethren of the North, but Faramir had never seen the wide green plains and lofty white-capped mountains of Rohan. Everyday he rode out on Hasuwine with Éowyn on Windfola beside him, and he came to love the land and the sharp wind and warm sun and to know intimately the history that was as real to the Rohirrim as the present.

Prince Imrahil was often with Arwen Undómiel but more often with Éomer, and a good friendship was formed between them. Arwen became a friend to Éowyn, and a great contrast they showed, one dark as twilight and the other golden as noontime, an ageless Elf and a young Daughter of Men. In the grey evenings when Faramir and Éowyn sat together on the platform of the Golden Hall and saw the blazing stars in the darkening sky, Arwen would often stand a little apart and gaze into the North-west, and it was Faramir who quietly explained to Éowyn the terrible choice she had had to make forever between love for father and love for husband. But on the day in early Autumn when Arwen stood the whole day gazing into the north with Elven-eyes and finally a single rider coming from the north was seen by the Men, Éowyn knew that Arwen felt no regret for her choice, and she was glad, for she had come to love the Elven Queen of Gondor.

So the King of Gondor returned to the Golden Hall, to the land of his great friends and allies. Great welcome was made, and on a day when the first cool of Autumn was only a hint in the wind, Éowyn and Faramir stood before King Éomer in the Golden Hall with Aragorn and Arwen on either side of them and a great host of the Riders of the Mark behind them, and Éowyn was clothed in white and gold with green gems in her golden hair, and Faramir wore black and silver and a silver circlet on his dark head. And Éomer said:

"To you, Faramir, Last of the Ruling Stewards of Gondor and First of the Princes of Ithilien, man of valour, skill, and wisdom, whose love is healing, I give my sister Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, shieldmaiden of the Riddermark, valiant in battle and in peace, to wife. In your union may the love and friendship of Rohan and Gondor be ever visible."

And Faramir kissed Éowyn his wife while through the open doors of the hall the wind swept in all around them.

Then Aragorn stood forth and proclaimed: "Today I renew to King Éomer of the Riddermark the gift of Cirion to Eorl the Young. For Eorl rode to the aid of Gondor in great need, and Cirion gave unto him and his people all the land of Calenardhon between Anduin and Isen, and they named it anew the Mark of the Riders, and ever have our two peoples lived in friendship and ancient alliance. May it ever be so!"

And Éomer responded: "As my longfather Eorl before me, I declare to the King of Gondor that any need he may have in war for aid from the Eorlingas will be answered without fail whatever dangers beset our own lands, and as long as our two thrones last will there be peace and friendship between us."

And the King of Gondor and the King of Rohan embraced amid the singing of the Eorlingas.


	17. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

So Éowyn took leave of her brother and her land and her people and rode with her husband to the fair hills of Ithilien, and they dwelt there long. And the deep wish of Faramir was fulfilled, for Elessar gave much of that land to Legolas Thranduilion and the Sylvan Elves of Eryn Lasgalen, and the hands of the Elves made them the fairest for many miles through all the Westlands, and it was the delight of Elessar and Arwen to walk in them and to grow in friendship with the Lord and Lady of Ithilien.

Éomer often fulfilled his vow to Elessar. For though Sauron had passed, the hatreds and evils that he bred had not died, and the King of the West had many enemies to subdue before the White Tree could grow in peace. And wherever King Elessar went with war King Éomer went with him; and beyond the Sea of Rhûn and on the far fields of the South the thunder of the cavalry of the Mark was heard, and the White Horse upon Green flew in many winds until Éomer grew old. And he rode often to Gondor and kept many friendships, and in the last year of the Third Age he wedded Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. Their son Elfwine the Fair ruled after him.

Close were the friendships between Shire, Rohan, Ithilien, and Gondor, and many visits made between them. In the last year of the Third Age Frodo son of Drogo with Mithrandir, Elrond, and Galadriel sailed into the West, and Faramir among many was saddened at a parting as true as death. But Samwise, Meriadoc, and Peregrin became great among their kind, and many were the gifts of friendship Faramir and Éowyn sent them from Ithilien.

Five children had Faramir and Éowyn. First was a boy with the pale hair and grey eyes of the Rohirrim, and they named him Elboron for the Hand that guided their days. Then another son of black hair and grey eyes who grew to wisdom and virtue like his father, and he was named Boromir. Then came two more boys, born on the same day, and they were as dark as Boromir, but they were as merry and lighthearted as those they were named for, for their names were Meriadoc and Peregrin. And lastly came a daughter, and to Faramir's joy she was as golden-haired as her mother and as lovely as the Spring, and Éowyn named her Finduilas. And it was said that among all in the land there were none so wise nor so joyous as the Lord Faramir and the Lady Éowyn of Ithilien.


	18. A Brief History of Rohan

**A Brief History of Rohan**

For good reason are the Rohirrim called the Men of the North. They had been the Éothéod, the Horse People, dwelling far to the North, lovers of the plains, delighting in horses and in all feats of horsemanship. There had been a long friendship existing between the Éothéod and the Men of Gondor. In the days of Eorl, in the year 2510 of the Third Age, some five hundred years before the War of the Ring, a peril threatened Gondor, danger from both the wild men of the Northeast and orcs out of the Mountains, and Cirion, Steward of Gondor, sent north for help. News came late to Eorl, but he determined to ride to the aid of Gondor nonetheless. All hope was lost in Gondor when, unlooked for, the Riders came out of the North, and great was the fear that went before the horseman of the North. Gondor was saved. In reward for their aid, Cirion gave the land of Calenardhon to Eorl and his people, and they settled it. They named it anew the Mark of the Riders, and they called themselves the Eorlingas; but in Gondor their land was called Rohan, and its people the Rohirrim (that is, the Horse-lords). Thus Eorl became the first King of the Mark. There the Rohirrim lived afterwards as free men under their own kings and laws, but in perpetual alliance with Gondor.

Thengel, Théoden's father, married Morwen of Lossarnach in Gondor, for he had lived long in Gondor before his father Fengel died, and when he became King of the Mark, the speech of Gondor was used in his house. Of his three children, Théoden was his only son, and Théodwyn, the youngest daughter, was much beloved by Théoden. Théoden became king in 2980 upon the death of Thengel, and in 2989 Théodwyn married Éomund of Eastfold, the chief marshal of the Mark. Her son Éomer was born in 2991 and her daughter Éowyn in 2995. Éomund was slain by orcs in 3002, and not long after Théodwyn took sick and died to the great grief of the king. Her children he took into his house, calling them son and daughter. He had only one child of his own, Théodred his son, then twenty-four years old; for the queen Elfhild had died in childbirth and Théoden did not wed again. Éomer and Éowyn grew up at Edoras and saw the dark shadow fall upon the halls of Théoden. The War of the Ring and the death of Théoden were in the year 3019 of the Third Age.


End file.
